


To Serve A Sunrise

by Niji_Hitomi_Iscariot, Silver_Eternity



Category: One Piece
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blindness, Depression, Illustrated, M/M, One Piece Big Bang 2016, Physical Disability, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Trans Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-20
Updated: 2016-04-20
Packaged: 2018-06-03 12:20:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 26,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6610486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Niji_Hitomi_Iscariot/pseuds/Niji_Hitomi_Iscariot, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silver_Eternity/pseuds/Silver_Eternity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sanji Noire was on top of the world. Literally. With a penthouse suite at the prestigious Galley-La Apartments. His name up in lights above the name of his restaurant. His pick of any number of fabulously beautiful people to grace his bed. And of course, his father’s pride and approval! Yes, the world was his oyster and he thought he had it all. Everyone either wanted him or wanted to be him.</p><p>Until it all came crashing down.</p><p>Pride goeth before the fall, so they say.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Serve A Sunrise

**Author's Note:**

> Illustrations are by the AMAZINGLY talented [Ota](http://derporange.tumblr.com)! Go give them love!!!!
> 
> Really I only want to make a small note here that I refuse to use "Vinsmoke" as Sanji's last name. He refuses to use it, and I think we should respect that, the same way we respect Ace when he refuses to use "Gol" as his last name. That is all.
> 
> Enjoy~! ^_^

"Mph."

He bounced off of something. Hard, cylindrical, cold. Sign post? Possibly a street light? He wasn't sure, but his hand felt metal and the layer of grime that told him he was close to the edge of the sidewalk. Why hadn't he...? Oh, that's right. A series of clicks and a hollow clack told him he hadn't swung the damned thing far enough over. He was never going to get used to doing that first. Especially around other people. He sighed, and hunched his shoulders a little deeper into the trench coat around his shoulders. The wind was biting at his ears and nose, and he wished he'd remembered to bring his scarf with him. Because the pocket of space between him and what he was sure was the rest of the crowd let the winter air swirl around him promising snow or at least ice before nightfall.

"Corner of East Blue Street and Red Line Ave." His GPS chimed in his pocket.

Good, he was almost home. He turned left unerringly, towards the apartments in the middle of the block. It wasn't much, but the money the government gave him every month was more than enough for his little studio at the top of the building.

To think, he couldn't get away from the view even now. 

He missed his penthouse, with the big picture windows and the ocean on both walls because of how high up he'd been. 

Symbolic that. 

Budding chef, the best hands in the country. On top of the world, literally, with everyone at his beck and call. The notoriously famous Sanji Noire! He could have had any number of debutants in his bed, princes and princesses, movie stars and models... They all wanted to either be him, or be with him. He'd even had the shitty old man's approval for the first time in his life. Three published cook books. A television spot on the Food Network. 

And his restaurant.

He'd specialized in seafood, but coming from this city that wasn't too surprising. Nestled between two of the biggest oceans on the planet tended to put a fishy spin on just about anything that could come out of the place. It also brought tourists, and where tourists came, so did their food. So, Sanji Noire had taken it upon himself to master how to prepare any dish that came from the sea, no matter how obscure the country it came from was. And damned if he didn't. 

Oh, he could cook anything really, but his seafood… now that was where he really shined!

Then… 

That night… 

When it had all come crashing down.

"Oof! Hey!" He glared at the thing he ran into for the second time, reaching a hand out to feel. Cloth, but it was hard. Solid, but with a certain give. "Look, I know you're a person, so just watch where you're going, shithead! It's not like I can."

He swung to the side to walk around the asshole in his path, and didn't notice he was walking directly towards the street with nothing to stop him from stepping straight out into traffic. The white, aluminum cane only told him that his path was clear, and the GPS in his pocket said nothing about the proximity of the edge of the sidewalk. 

This, beyond everything else, made it obvious that the slender blond was blind.

The person he'd rammed into only grunted in response to his scold, but it took the other man barely a second to realize the blind idiot was headed straight for traffic—and the oncoming truck. 

Zoro Roronoa may not have been the same kind of infamous that Sanji was, but a background like his meant three important things, especially in situations like this. The first, he was a man of few words and little wasted breath. It kept him aware of every nuance of the crowd around him, even when there wasn’t one. Secondly, his very life had often depended on how fast he could react to sudden stimuli. His reflexes were near instantaneous, and he prided himself on keeping them that way. And third… 

He didn't bother with verbal warnings as his body acted before his head gave any input. Like usual. His arm darted out quicker than a striking snake and hauled the thin blond up and back against his body. 

Third, he had been informed by everyone he knew that this was something like being flung full-force into a breathing brick wall. 

But he wasn't exactly thinking about that as his thickly corded arm firmly squished the thin creature up against his chest.

"HEY! Asshole! The fuck you think you're doing!?" Sanji fought, pushing and pulling and squirming, until he heard the motor and horn of the truck with which he'd almost ended his life. Then he stilled, embarrassment fresh across his face, and mumbled. "Thank you. I guess."

Zoro gave another grunt. The arm about him slowly released, and a furnace-like hand rested on his elbow until he found his feet again. Then there was a pause.

"...you know where we are?"

This question served two purposes: one, it ensured the blind man would have to get his bearing to answer and two… two it would hopefully help the man in question find his new apartment building. He'd combed this quarter of the city fifteen fucking times and still couldn't find the thing.

"This is East Blue Street. The only important thing on it is the Galley-La Apartment complex. About..."

The blond ran the tip of his cane along the edge of the sidewalk, it hit two broken places, then he lifted it and pointed in the direction he'd originally been headed.

"Ten paces that way." A frown formed on his face, and he glared up through thick, shaggy bangs, "You weren't asking because you thought I was lost, were you? Because I'm never lost! Just because I can't see doesn't mean I'm helpless!"

The impromptu savior frowned. He knew perfectly well blindness didn't equal helplessness, but he was stuck on what the man said. "...you're shitting. Ten paces. Prove it."

Now he was SURE of it, the building HAD to have fucking moved. He'd been down this street at least twenty times, and never seen the place, not even a sign.

"This had damn well better not be some kind of fucked up game." Sanji leaned in, jabbing a finger into the other man's sternum. Then he inhaled, with the kind of precision that came from years of checking for spoiled food. "You smell new. So, I'll cut you some slack only because I'm heading home and my studio happens to be the top floor of one of the buildings in the complex. But, so help me, if this is some kind of joke for you, I'll rearrange your face with my foot."

Then he stepped to the side, and making a show of checking his path with his cane, walked exactly ten paces. The driveway cut through the sidewalk and a big arching sign hung across it: 'Galley-La Apartments'. The little gatehouse off to the side had the blinds drawn and a faint snoring could be heard filtered out through the speaker. Beyond it, five towering buildings ringed a cul de sac parking lot built with what appeared to be cliché stucco siding leftover from the 80s.

"There. Now, if you don't mind, I've had a long day, and I'd like to get home before the narcoleptic shithead in the box wakes up and wants to talk." Sanji grumbled, ducking around the gate with surprising agility.

Zoro looked up at the sign and scowled. "Stupid fucking building. If you move again, I'll bring you down."

His threat was empty because he knew perfectly well that he wouldn't, just as he knew the inanimate object wasn't going to respond. They never did. Nope, they just kept fucking moving around on him.

Then he paced after the blond, his heavy footsteps thumping with his peculiar half-hitched rhythm. The Master that had taken his left eye had forced him to walk in that particular, almost staggered way. ‘Every full extension of your leg in a stride is an invitation to cut it off.’ He damn near had too, until Zoro had learned.

Now he just had to find his apartment… what was the number again? He rummaged in a pocket and pulled it out, oh yeah… 21. 21… was that a B or an E? It was hard to tell. Damn that airhead's atrocious handwriting!

"Oi. Why are you still following me?"

Sanji paused outside the Thousand Sunny Tower, the tallest of the five buildings. His apartment, 21 A, was the studio that took up one half of the top floor. It was a far cry from his penthouse but it suited his new needs. Mainly, no walls except the bathroom, and beyond that, no kitchen.

Zoro grunted yet again, looking between the paper in his hand and the sign on the building. "I apparently live here now. 21st floor."

He resisted the urge to spit. Why couldn't he just live in the dojo? He'd liked living in the dojo. But no. Apparently he wasn't allowed to do that anymore... even though when he'd been in training—

Well. Best to cut that thought right there. His training hadn't been the standard. He had been trained as a true warrior, as a man who was expected to go to fields red with blood and fight to the death, where a single misstep could be his end.

They didn't train people the way he'd been trained anymore. Those places were gone. Damn it all.

A twitch took the blond's chin from straight to tilted. "Twenty-first? Lovely. Please tell me you don't snore?"

Stepping through the door, Sanji sighed, intent on marching straight to the elevator, but that was not to be his luck. Of course, if the narcoleptic was on the guard house that meant—

"SAAAANJIIIII!!!!!" Came the echoing cry from the lobby desk.

"Hello, Luffy." He stopped, and counted silently.

5.

4.

3.

2.

1.

The bouncy, eternally optimistic young man literally grabbed a hold of him, and spun him around. Though he wound up facing the same direction as he had been, it never failed to disorient him for a moment or two. But the boy was laughing, so, he bit back the nasty retort that threatened to break through his lips. Instead, he gripped the handle of his cane harder, ignoring the ominous crack the plastic made. It was routine by now, and he'd gone through more canes that way.

"When ya gonna come and let Ace cook for you, Sanji? He's an ace with a grill." The dark-haired twenty-year-old grinned at his own pun.

"Cute, Luffy. Now… please? I've had a long day." The blond groaned.

The pout the brunet gave was audible, "Aw, yer always sayin' that! Ever since ya moved in, ya never wanna hang out with anyone. Just hole yerself up in yer apartment, 'cept when ya leave."

"That is generally what it means when one goes out." Sanji sighed again. "But perhaps it's just because I'm not very social?"

"Aw! That ain't true and you know it! Before the—"

"ENOUGH! Luffy. I'm tired. Please?"

"Fine, fine." The dark-haired man extracted himself and crossed his arms over his chest. "But Nami isn't gonna like it."

Sanji moved off in what he hoped was the direction of the elevator. "Give my apologies to Nami-san for me, but I'm not up to entertaining company at the moment. C'mon, marimo, I'll show you to our floor."

Zoro grunted, shoving Luffy off him when the man wrapped around him demanding to know where he'd been all this time, then frowned, brow furrowing.

"Wait… our floor? OOF!"

This time he was sent crashing to the floor, holding his stomach as his sparring partner and fellow swordsman leaned on his cane and laughed brightly. "Yo ho ho, and here I thought you were never off guard, my fine young friend!"

Zoro growled and rolled to his feet.

"You're lucky it's illegal to carry katana these days, Brook, or I'd wipe the floor with your old bones," he ribbed even as he avoided a second swipe of the cane and migrated near the blond by the elevator.

Sanji put a hand to his head. The meeting of the new man meant he was crossing the lobby at the exact wrong point of the day. Why couldn't the damned metal box go faster? He hated having to navigate all of the other tenants in the building, because every single one of them knew who he'd been before. The budding chef, with the different girlfriend every day, and buzzing from party to party, with the world as his oyster.

Well, he wasn't that person anymore, and had no desire to be so. All he wanted to do was go home, turn on some soothing music and go to sleep. He didn't even care what time of day it was. He'd eaten and worked off what he'd consumed on the trip home. Thus his duties for the day were over and he could concentrate on preparing himself for another grueling day being the pathetic cripple he'd become since the accident. He truly didn't understand why all these people who'd never been close to him personally before, had such a vested interest in his welfare now.

"Oi! Shithead, if you aren't in this tin box in the next five minutes I'm going up without you." He grumbled, deliberately turning away from the laughter between Luffy and Brook.

Yet another grunt answered him.

Oh lovely, he was back to that again.

The heat of him slid into the little metal box and leaned against one wall as Brook watched with a tilted head.

"Now isn't that odd," the musician murmured to himself. "I've never seen Zoro look like that before."

Luffy hung on the older swordsman's deceptively strong arm like a monkey on a tree. "Look like what?"

"Look like… you know what, nevermind, Luffy. It must be a trick of the light," Brook dismissed abruptly with a little secret smile.

"Mah. Nobody tells me nothin'!" The brunet pouted and bounced back off to his seat behind the desk.

In the elevator Sanji was silent, as usual, lost in his own thoughts. About halfway up, he started to speak, only to stop himself, reconsider, and push forward, "Sanji. By the way."

Zoro rolled his tongue against his teeth. "...Zoro. S'a pleasure."

His voice held no mocking, but wasn't sincere either. Other than his name, this was obviously simply manners beaten into him so as to be automatic. Normally he wasn't very good about those.

Unless another swordsman was in the room. Or, heaven forbid, a superior swordsman. Master Mihawk still whupped his ass once a week to make sure he didn't get rusty.

"You smell like the sea." The blond tried not to sound irritated, but only half succeeded.

"...you can tell?" There was the sound of a shift as Zoro perked just slightly and his head turned to regard the blond with his one-eyed gaze. He'd moved from the shore-front shack over a week ago and taken daily showers; if it weren't for his own beast-like nose he wouldn't be able to smell it himself.

"East coast. Close to the harbor, but that wasn't the first place you lived near the ocean." The smaller man confirmed. "It's in your voice, and your hair. And your skin. It doesn't matter what your job is, though I'd guess something to do with your hands, but the salt from the ocean leaves a certain callous on your skin. You can't get rid of it. The Shitty Geezer..." He stopped, bit his lip and looked away. "He always smelled like the sea."

One of Zoro's eyebrows was up.

"...how would you know if my skin is calloused with salt air? You haven't touched me," he pointed out. He didn't pry—it wasn't his business—but he was curious. How the HELL did the twigman know?

"Here, give me your hand." Sanji held out both of his own, sliding the cane down his arm by the leather loop on the end.

Wordlessly, unquestioningly Zoro did it.

Mihawk would have taken the hand for being such an idiot and trusting a stranger if he'd seen it but thankfully he wasn't there to witness.

His hand was warm… no, hot as the rough knuckles scraped Sanji's palm.

"See… here." The delicate, but strong fingers that gripped the swordsman's hand drifted across the soft places between his knuckles. "There's a weathered callus here. And around your nails, the salt cakes there, leaves the cuticles dry and easy to scrape if you don't use oil on them. Even the sword oil you use to polish your blades is enough. Here," He drew a fingertip around the curve of Zoro's thumb, "You've used ropes, probably fishing nets. Or at least, you've done time with boats. Only sailors and dockworkers have that kind of rope burn. You also use chopsticks anytime you can get away with it, and prefer your soups and teas too hot for most people to even handle the bowl." He traced the larger man's palm. "Sake is good but you should expand your tastes, it doesn't always compliment the food you're eating best, and it's an insult to the cook to not eat their food the way they mean to have it served. You also shouldn't bite your nails. It'll weaken your grip on your swords if your fingertips hurt while you're fighting. If they're too long, use a clipper, and for the nerves, use gum."

Zoro stared at him blankly for several long, long seconds as he tried to figure out how the fuck he knew. Some things it was obvious like the calluses, the roughness of nails and cuticles, okay he could see that, but… but…

"How the hell do you know I prefer my liquids burning hot, eat with chopsticks, and how in the living hell did you know my favorite booze is sake?!"

Sanji turned his palm over and traced the center, "Your ochoko sits here, you have faint smudging of your fingerprint lines on your palm, and you have a permanent indentation where your chopsticks sit. Though, you really should get a new set, the cheap ones you took from the restaurant on 25th are giving you splinters."

Zoro's cheeks flushed and burned. "...I tend to grip 'em too hard..."

He was used to sturdier things than what was sold cheap here. He was used to things of quality that were passed down through the generations… not the poorly made splintery things they had at the restaurants here.

"Besides, I… I can't get 'em out." He didn't have the depth perception anymore to pinch those tiny little splinters and yank them. He cleared his throat. "But no really, did the ochoko make a dent? I haven't had any in years."

The blond's voice softened, "You have the ease of a practiced drinker in your hand, and as for splinters..." He brought one hand around to hold the larger fingers still, and the other used nails that were both entirely too long and too delicate to belong to a man to pluck seven splinters from each finger as though he was using tweezers. "I can remove the others once we get to my apartment."

It never even occurred to him that he was being sociable, or that he'd just invited this almost perfect stranger into his home. He hadn't even invited his brothers to see his apartment, but here he was bringing this new person who only spoke in grunted noises more often than words into his most private place. It almost gave him pause, but he rationalized that the man had technically saved his life down on the sidewalk. Thus, he at least owed him enough to clean the man's hand of wooden particles.

"They'll get infected if you don't have them removed. And don't worry. You'll get used to it." Sanji let Zoro's hand go, missing it almost instantly, but needing to have his hands free for when the elevator stopped, "At least it was only one."

"Get used to… what? One what?" Zoro had no clue Sanji somehow knew about his eye.

He flexed his hand, already feeling a bit better to have the splinters out. A couple were already infected, he'd be damn glad to get the things out. They tended to hurt like hell when he wanted to pick something up.

"Your eye. The one you're trying to avoid having stared at." The lift dinged, and Sanji stepped out to the left, "You drift slightly to the right, which tells me you aren't used to not being able to see out of your left eye. You'll get used to it. Trust me. After a while..." His voice dropped and he sounded wistful, "...it's like you never had it to begin with."

"Oh. It's been awhile already… I just… people started giving me funny looks again when I moved. It made me a bit… irritated. I've been overcompensating... again. Damn. Master is going to tan my hide."

Zoro tried to correct himself as he followed after Sanji, letting the blind man lead the way with no thought the man couldn't do it. The sorts of foolish notions that would have someone else stepping in front and asking for the blond's keys never occurred to the swordsman. The unconscious assurances proved to be the means into the surly blind man's real personality. 

Sanji pulled his keys from his pocket, felt around the ring only for a moment, no longer than if he'd been actually able to look at them, and opened his door with a sigh. "Ah, yes. People. My apologies for any clutter. I haven't cleaned in a few days."

The studio was in a word, immaculate; if Spartan.

Worn Braille labels were printed neatly along the walls under paintings of vast seascapes, and under light switches. The blond's bed was neatly made in the corner, a futon that folded up to be a soft couch. There was a small table against the wall nearest the door, where outlined boxes were obviously used to hold the man's keys, mail, and a basket which was currently empty. A hook next to the table was convenient for the aluminum cane, and Sanji toed off his shoes under it. The bathroom was a recess with a shower curtain for a door across the way, and the rest was covered by a plush carpet. It was small, only the one room, and not a stitch of kitchen or dining room in the entire place. There was a bookshelf, however, the top third of which was lined with cookbooks. James Beard, Betty Crocker, Alton Brown, Mario Batali, Wolfgang Puck, and several other lesser known names. The last three were quite vibrant, obviously fairly new, rarely ever used, and all of them had the initials S.N. on the spine in bold calligraphy.

Zoro peered around the apartment, taking it in the sedate way of a tiger observing new territory. He noticed the cookbooks, which he thought extremely odd as there was no kitchen and thus no need for such a thing, but it was no nevermind to him and he said nothing.

Except to announce, "If this is what it looks like after not bein' cleaned in a few days, I don't think you know what clutter is."

For Zoro, clutter included spilled sword oil, dirty workout towels, and a lot of unwashed laundry.

"I was taught that a professional keeps his work spaces clear." Sanji's voice was obviously quoting something. "It only became more important after..."

He trailed off and moved with practiced grace into the bathroom to retrieve his first aid kit. Then he beckoned to the other to join him on the futon, already removing tweezers, gauze, antiseptic wash, and bandages in a neat halo around his knee. It surprised even himself that he was trusting the newcomer this much. Not just into his home, and talking to him more than he spoke to any of the others in the building, but he hadn't said anything about the way he liked to keep his home, what the other should do with his shoes, or even how he wanted the larger man to sit. He just… instinctively knew that Zoro would do what he'd asked, even the silent questions.

Zoro's shoes were left at the door, and his socked feet made shockingly little noise as he settled on the bed cross-legged in front of Sanji and once more offered his hand, letting his knuckles brush soft skin.

His footsteps still had that peculiar hitch, but the sound of what had to be two-hundred-something pounds of muscle resting on the floor made only the quietest of noises. If necessary, he could even move silently.

It was most peculiar. He disturbed nothing. It was like he appeared right where Sanji wanted him as if by magic.

"You're very good at that. I almost couldn't hear you." The blond immediately set to work removing bits of wood with a tsk-ing sound. "Told you they'd get infected. Your master is an idiot for letting you out like this. The least he could do is replace the chopsticks he wouldn't let you keep."

"He… has been busy. My last chopsticks... well, there was an incident with a pyromaniac narcoleptic." He winced as one of the infected ones seemed to yank something connected deep in the web between his thumb and first finger with it when it came out.

"Besides… as long as I can hold a sword, little things like splinters are none of his business."

"Hmph. Sounds just like the Shitty Geezer." The last one was stubborn and took a bit of digging to actually get it out, but as soon as he had, Sanji splashed the whole area with the antiseptic wash, then wrapped the gauze around the swordsman's palm. "Tomorrow, take it to Chopper. He's the teenager in 14 E. Pre-med student over at GLU. He'll be able to get you something for the infection."

Finding himself somewhat at a loss for what else to say, Sanji stood, gathering his things together. It was rather awkward, and he knew what he would have done before, but this was now, and the Sanji of now didn't do things like that. No matter how handsome the newcomer sounded. So, with a small blush for his thoughts, the blond shuffled his way back into the bathroom to clean the tweezers and put everything away where it belonged.

Zoro stood in the doorway, not sure what to do now. Sanji had done him a good turn, this deserved another good turn... well. If he remembered right, Luffy had promised that his apartment would be all set up the way he liked it when he arrived.

"...you wanna come over for tea?"

The offer was so awkward he winced. He wasn't good at this... social stuff. But he did try, sometimes.

"Eh... I suppose... If you don't mind having me. I'm sure it's been a long day for you as well, judging by how frustrated you were to know you'd walked right past where you were going." The blond rubbed his head, a bundle of nerves curling in his stomach.

"Mm." Another grunt. "Used to that. C'mon… I think I still have some of the jasmine." At the door, he slipped into his shoes, digging in one deep pocket for his key ring. "It'll be a… house warming or whatever they call it."

"Hm." Sanji responded with his own noncommittal sound, stepping back into his own shoes, and taking his cane, though he very much doubted he'd need it, and mumbled, very quietly, "Less than you think."

Zoro’s ears seemed to twitch, like a dog's. "What was that?"

“Nevermind.” The blond shook his head, crossing the short distance to the next door down the hall.

The lock clicked quietly as the swordsman unlocked the door and pushed it open, immediately slipping off his heavy boots again and this time discarding his socks in a basket as he paced over to the cooktop.

He could make approximately three things: tea, rice, and ramen. He did not have a stove, only the cheap two-burner cooktop, and no oven either. He put the kettle on and went rummaging in his cupboard for the Jasmine tea; the "guest tea". He preferred oolong, personally.

His apartment was very spare, and just as obsessively organized as Sanji's, though without the labels. There was a short couch against one wall, a futon on the other wall, the sink and counter against the far wall, and an enclosed bathroom-ish area enclosed by a curtain. A rack stood on the wall at the head of the futon with his swords and his bokken, and folded neatly against the wall in one corner were two thick workout mats. There was one coffee table in front of the sofa.

He did not own a tv. He only possessed by way of electronics two things; his CD player and his microwave.

Something strange about it though, the end of the apartment happened before the end of the hallway. Significantly so. The wall with the bathroom and kitchen nooks was approximately twenty feet before the outer wall of the building on that side. It made it obvious something had been walled off, and recently, judging by the unmarred paint; not even smudged with wear of hands leaning on it.

However, despite the too-cleanness of it, it had a warm, 'home' feeling, a welcoming aura.

Sanji paused after removing his shoes, letting his toes sink into the carpet, and though it wasn't visible from beneath his bangs, he closed his eyes against the scent and feel of the place. He stepped forward, straight into the kitchen area, reached with unerring accuracy into several different cupboards. He pulled the tea Zoro was looking for, two cups, and a container of sugar. Then from a drawer, without thinking, he lifted a pair of spoons and the duplicate tea balls that would hold the precious dried leaves. The only time he stopped was just after the cook top, where he put his hand on the wall with a tender sort of caress and mumbled something under his breath. Then he felt along the counter until his hand touched the metal of the appliance, and his confidence came back, adjusting the fire under the kettle with a deft twist of his wrist.

"If you leave the heat on high after the burner's warmed up, you'll warp your pot. Bring it down to medium. It saves your kettle, and creates a slower boil for the tea itself. To help bring out a better flavor. Also, don't shortchange yourself. If this isn't your preference, don't force yourself to drink it on my account." He almost added 'because I'm not worth it', but caught himself just before the words left his lips.

Zoro’s shoulder rolled in an expansive shrug where he was leaning against the counter, chin in one hand as his eye followed the other man.

"It's not that I don't like it. I just only bother when there's a guest. Jasmine's a more delicate balance; a tea man's tea. I don't bother to show off when it's just me," he informed him with a bit of a chuckle, watching the stranger own his kitchen. "You're good. Is it a form of benign black magic, or did you help set up the apartment? Luffy's good at getting helpers that didn't expect to get involved."

He was smiling a bit. He liked this guy. He couldn't pinpoint exactly why, but he liked him.

"Eh..." The blond froze. "No. I… I have had nothing to do with this par… eh… no, I don't socialize with the others in the building. There is another reason I know… your kitchen as well as I do."

He blushed, deeply, from his nose to the back of his neck, and he knew it. He'd been caught. He mentally berated himself, and unconsciously did what had been his habit for most of his life, he threw himself into cooking. Snagging the kettle just before the whistle blew, he wrapped the cords of the two tea balls around his fingers and poured the scalding water over them into a decorative pot with a wooden handle and he could see the delicately painted crane on the side in his mind's eye. It was so clear, he could almost see the colors again. Was it the newcomer that was doing this to him? He wasn't sure, but a drop of salty emotion escaped the curtain of his hair as he finished the tea, letting the leaves float in their mesh prison at the top of the pot. Without thinking, he drew a plate from another cupboard and set about arranging biscuits, with a specific mixed jam that was both bitter and slightly salty, designed specifically to enhance the subtle sweetness of the tea.

Zoro only watched with amusement, knowing better than to interrupt. If he caused Sanji to start and spill boiling water on himself he'd feel terrible.

"So my benign black magic theory was right then." He pretended that tiny tear didn't exist, instead taking the pot and moving it to the table. "And you are my guest. Magic or no, kindly let me do the serving."

"Sorry. Habit." The slender male made his way to the low table in the center of the room, and knelt against it, proper seiza style. "It has only been a few years that I've had to get used to... things, and as they say, old habits die hard."

"So you serve your other friends in their own houses as well? Interesting." Zoro brought over the plate as well as two cups, letting the tea still steep as he pushed the plate right into the middle of the table, 'accidentally' nudging Sanji's fingers with it.

He sank into a mirror seiza with a pleased sigh. Oh it felt good to get off his feet.

"But old habits really do die a long, hard death. Kicking and screaming. Like nail biting." He glared at his own ragged, too-short nails.

"Heh. If I went to other people's houses, probably. Yes." The blond chuckled, "But as hard as it is to resist in other people's homes, it is doubly so in my own. I have no doubt Luffy planned this."

"You attribute him with undue cleverness," Zoro replied instantly. "If it was contrived, Nami did it. Luffy can't plan that far ahead."

"Ah, sweet Nami-san. Wickedly clever she is. Yeah, you're probably right. I mean, why else would they let someone like you move into the other half of my penthouse without asking me first?" Sanji punctuated his statement with one of the biscuits, smiling slightly.

"Hn. Don't feel bad… they didn't ask me either." He left the biscuits alone, not interested in the sweetness. "Just gave me a key and said 'show up here or I'm telling your Master about the time you spilled sake on his favorite hat and then set it on fire'. And dare I ask what 'someone like me' is, blondie?"

"Someone worth fighting with. I bet you have some strange hair color. Like pink or green or something." Sanji laughed.

Zoro made a little strangled noise and went suspiciously quiet. Spot-fucking-on. Suddenly black magic didn't seem like so much of a stretch.

The blond paused with his tea cup raised halfway to his lips, "Did I say something wrong?"

"No. Just scarily accurate." He cleared his voice to try and get the squeak out of it. The Japanese were a deeply superstitious lot, and he was too. Sometimes.

"Ah, well that would be because of my reputation, which I thank you for not knowing. I'm going to go out on a limb and assume you've never heard of me, but I doubt very much if you've lived in this city for any length of time and not heard the name Baratie."

Sanji was quiet. He didn't know why he was talking about this. It was deeply personal, and something he didn't even share with those that knew most of what had happened. But there was something about this newcomer. A sort of drive to know him. Especially to put his fear of black magic to rest.

"Nope. Why? Is it an important place?" He took his own tea, breathing the fragrant aromas deeply before taking the first sip with a low purr of satisfaction.

"Well, I'll be. He did what he promised." The blond shook his head. "It was the Shitty… I mean, my dad's restaurant. Before it burned down. My brothers and I worked there with him. It was the best place in town, and we never turned anyone away. Not even that narcoleptic bastard Luffy calls a brother. Nothing more insulting than a customer falling asleep in your food. Except maybe having him waste it, which the punk never did, thank God. Otherwise I'd have had to kick his ass back to where he came from." Sanji laughed. "But… just after the Geezer retired, I was working on a recipe he'd never perfected, certain I could do it. There's this flip, you see. In the middle." He illustrated with his hands on the table. "Makes the whole thing turn over if you can do it right, and when it lands it makes this slide from orange to blue, like the sun coming up over the ocean. But it's tricky, because if you don't do it right… well… let's just say it can cost you something fierce." He sipped his tea, letting the flavors mix on his tongue, "Anyway, I promised Luffy when the two of them renovated my place that if he could find someone that had never heard of my dad's restaurant that only that person could move into this half. That's my kitchen over there, except for part of it's been walled off. It's why you don't have a real stove."

Zoro blinked, then shrugged. Okay.

"Fair enough. I don't need a stove. In fact I'm barred from ever touching one." He didn't say why. That, well, that was better left quite alone. "Sounds like it was hard. A worthy goal."

"Not one to be achieved I'm afraid though." Another sip of tea punctuated the silence that followed Sanji’s sentence.

Almost unconsciously, the swordsman’s hand touched his chest. "...failure makes it no less worthy an endeavor." He returned both hands to his cup and sipped as well.

"It's an impossible dream and I was foolish to try and master it. Young and stupid." Sanji’s knuckles paled as he gripped the cup harder than he normally would have.

"Nothing is an impossible dream," Zoro’s voice growled like a thunderclap as the grip on his own mug made his knuckles pop. "...the young and stupid manage more than the aged and wise. They have youth on their side… and more importantly… they haven't learned what is... 'impossible'," the word itself was distasteful on his tongue and it showed in his voice, "yet."

"The young and stupid wind up making others pay for their ignorance! It's bad enough they get themselves caught up in it, but they bring the rest of their friends and family into the mess too! That's what makes it impossible!" Sanji slammed his hands on the table, leaning in and glaring at the plate beneath him with his chin tucked down to hide his face in his hair even more than he already did.

"Nobody gets caught against their will, Sanji, family or friend. They can cut you off at any time. It's when they don't that makes the impossible possible." His voice was iron and steel.

"Not when it costs their lives! Nobody should have to die because some ego-filled hotshot thinks he can do what nobody else has been able to do before! It's not their fault that he was too stupid to see the danger before it was too late." The ex-chef’s fingers curled into fists, almost gouging the table.

"It's not his either." Zoro's voice was flat. Matter-of-fact. "It's nobody's fault. If nobody ever ventured something new, the human race would stagnate and die. Danger just likes to use it as an excuse to slip in and steal people away. It's nobody's fault when it does. Especially not that puffed-up hotshot who had no idea it could go so horribly wrong."

Sanji chuckled, toneless and self-depreciating. "Well, it's not like it matters. The bastard can't see anything anymore. So, even if it hadn't been impossible before. It certainly is now."

He sat back, refusing to apologize for his outburst. Strangely, he felt light, angry and disgusted at himself for both spilling his story and losing his temper in front of the newcomer, but there seemed to be some sort of weight lifted from his shoulders, or maybe his chest.

"Hm. Blindness is a silly reason to give up." Zoro also sat back. Why was he arguing with Sanji? Because somehow he felt Sanji needed it. He needed that friction, he needed that chance to assert himself. He was a strong man, and he needed ways to show the rest of the world. He needed someone to fight him.

Well. If there was one thing Zoro knew how to do it was fight. And provoke. And get on nerves.

But this was a bad start, so he sighed deeply. "Look. Let's just… drop this, mm? Arguing life-views will get us nowhere but the corner of Frustrated and Violent."

The blond laughed, "How can a blind man cook? He can't see to measure, to choose ingredients, to read recipes, or even to get around in his kitchen. What good is it if he can see in his mind and can't see for real?"

"That's a stupid question to ask. How does any man cook? How does any chef run his kitchen? He finds a way. He gets help," Zoro couldn't stop himself from snapping back. "You might as well ask how a blind man can navigate himself or how a blind man can eat. Adjustments are made."

His jaw clenched. Goddamn it, he was trying not to argue. This was going just splendidly.

"It… It isn't that simple!" Sanji glared down at his hands, the long fingers curling as if trying to grasp something that he no longer could. "The whole place is gone. This is… the first time I've even stepped foot in a kitchen since before my pride ruined everything. It just… isn't that simple."

He sounded defeated, and that just didn't hang well on the lithe blond. It was out of place, and wrong. This was a man who was supposed to be on top of the world, not mourning a set-back. His casual acceptance of his handicap was just infuriating. He should have been fighting! The fire was still there, it was obvious, but the former chef just avoided touching it, like he was afraid of being burned again.

"Nothing worth pursuing ever is," Zoro growled, irritated, tugging on one of his earrings in a gesture of frustration, barely noticing when it set all three chiming loudly in his ear. "If it was simple or easy, it wouldn't be worth achieving. I never said such a thing was simple. But it's the only option. When it's either adjust or give up and die, the only thing to do is adapt. The other possibility is unpalatable."

He set his cup down and breathed deep. Let it out.

"Look, I can't… I can't discuss something like this rationally. I'm sorry. I probably sound like a callous jackass and that's probably accurate. But you handled live fire just fucking fine with no working eyes, and I exploded my Master's kitchen and half his house when I still had two."

The blind man was quiet, and he tilted his head to the side just a fraction. "Why three?"

Zoro paused. "...why three what?"

"Your earrings. One is fairly normal these days, and two wouldn't be that far of a stretch since you're ambidextrous, which I assume means you wield a weapon in each hand. But three seems fairly odd, unless you're working on piercing the entire outside edge of your ear. That seems to be a trend these days, folks with so many piercings their bodies are more metal than flesh anymore." He brow furrowed in curiosity, though his bangs covered his face from hairline to cheekbones.

"Oh… no, your second proposal is correct. I wield three weapons at once. I'm in no hurry to put more holes than necessary in my body. The earrings were… an insistence on Master Mihawk's part. He is very... very insistent on certain traditions."

"Ah. That explains the callus you keep running your tongue over at the end of your sentences." Sanji lifted his tea, sipping lightly at the delicate liquid. "You must have something worth dying for to be willing to go to such lengths. Tell me, would it still be worth it? If you lost a leg, or an arm, or your other eye. Would your dream still be something worth going after? Even if you'd become a burden to those around you."

"Yes. Because sooner or later I'd stop being a burden. Giving up would be the greatest dishonor possible. It would make everything I've ever strived for meaningless. It would make all my promises worthless. Ceasing to work toward my dream… I would sooner throw myself on the Black sword. If I truly thought I hit an obstacle physically impossible to overcome I would commit suicide. But that is my way of life; death before dishonor. I can't expect other people to adhere to it."

"I suppose that's what you think I've done then? Given up? Probably wallowing in self-pity or some shit like that?" The blond sniffed derisively. "Well, Mr. Death-before-dishonor, what would you have me do? Endanger more lives because I can't tell if my kitchen is safe?"

"If you ran a kitchen with your father, I'm pretty sure you had other chefs that were perfectly capable of keeping shit straight, didn't you? Because if you didn't, the kitchen would've burned down sooner than it did. Nothing kills anything quite as fast as stupid employees." He huffed and took up his cup again. No use letting it get cold.

Sanji started, "Yeah… my brothers. Idiot muscleheads. And… they still cook. They've a diner across the way. It was where I was coming from. They… wouldn't want to work for me. Tiptoe around like I'm made of glass or some shit, whispering low enough that they think I can't hear what they're saying. But..." He shook his head. "It doesn't matter. No one wants to eat food cooked by a blind man. Even you!"

He pointed to the plate where only three of the biscuits had been touched. The other three, aligned perfectly around the opposite edge of the plate from the former chef, sat immaculate and tempting.

Zoro blinked, then outright laughed.

"Don't be stupid, cook! You being blind has nothing to do with it; I just don't like sweets, and I've found this kind of biscuit much too sweet for my taste. Even if it is a perfect complement to the tea." He shook his head, earrings chiming again.

"It's not sweet, shithead. Only an idiot would serve a sweet-berry jam with a flower like Jasmine. Anything more than what I've done to it would overpower the tea and make it impossible to enjoy. And anyone who's done so with you in the past was both a moron and knew nothing of how to compliment food and drink." The cook growled.

"Tea aside, I just don't like sweets. They taste… what's the word… syrupy? But if you say it's not..." his shoulder rolled in a shrug again and he took one of the biscuits, teeth crunching it as he bit down.

The immediate sound of appreciation rumbled up out of his throat without his permission.

The cook across from him said nothing. His food always had and always would stand on its own feet. Thus, hearing the newcomer thoroughly enjoy himself, Sanji felt something akin to the warmth that had been missing for so long. He covered the smile that tried to pull at his lips with his teacup, and used the sigh as a breath to clear the steam from the top of the liquid.

The remaining biscuits disappeared rapidly, crunching loudly between quiet sips of tea, and then the sound of a second cup being poured coupled with a waft of the Jasmine scent followed by a pleased sigh.

"...it's a damn shame I'm no good with food. Cooked food anyway. It leaves me not much to talk to you about. Except maybe how the living fuck you know I'm ambidextrous."

"If I told you all of my secrets now, what would we talk about later?" The slender man rose to his feet and gave a small bow of respect. "Since this is now your home, I will leave the clean up to you. If you need help navigating the city, don't ask Luffy. He tends to forget that not all roads end in food. The tea was most splendid. Thank you, Zoro-san."

Low grunt as he collected the plate and cups carefully. "Yer welcome. An' consider the invitation over here open, come whenever you feel like it. Must get boring, being on your own sometimes. I'll try not to be too loud."

He left Sanji to show himself out as he took the dishes to the sink, again an unconscious trust of Sanji's abilities. It never occurred to him to question the cook's navigational prowess. He was busy with etiquette; traditionally he should insist Sanji stay at least twice, but Sanji was American and it might make him feel awkward, so he had to remember not to.

Leaving the apartment next to his own was far colder than the blond wanted to admit, but at the same time, he felt a dangerous pull to take the swordsman up on his offer. It was far too easy to fall back into old habits. That, compounded with the government's distrust of his capableness, was why he had insisted that the D brothers, and the rest of their insane crew, remove all traces of a kitchen from his home. The feel of the knives, the rhythm of cooking, the scents of the dishes being prepared; it assaulted his core, demanding to know why he was so out of practice. He argued back that his blindness kept him from doing it, but… the more he said it, the more it felt like a pathetic excuse. And if there was one thing Sanji Noire wasn't, it was pathetic. So, pausing outside of his door, he turned his head as though to look at the one next to it, and frowned, drawing his lips into a straight line. Did he dare? Could it be possible? Was it worth trying again? It was stupid. He shook his head. The Shitty Geezer would have kicked his head in for thinking that way. And that was what made up his mind. He turned on his heel, strode to the elevator with more confidence in his step than normal, and exited the building, intent on hunting down his brothers.

The diner was exactly how he’d left it hours before, grungy in that well-loved sort of way that stank of bacon fat, hamburgers, and french fries with an under-flavor of milkshakes on the back of the ex-chef’s tongue.

“Oi!! To what do we owe the pleasure of His Grace’s company twice in one day?” Patty snorted, flipping something onto the grill that sizzled too loudly.

Sanji shook his head, “It’s a wonder you two are even still in business with the way you abuse that meat, Patty.”

“Wouldja listen to that?” Carne clomped up to his side with obvious footsteps, “The fruit wants to tell us how to run our restaurant.”

Silent and scowling, Sanji merely took his usual seat in the booth closest to the kitchen. He could hear the bustle behind the scenes without risk of being interacted with, as he would if he took a stool at the counter. He’d learned that the hard way back before he’d gotten used to navigating without his sight.

After a while, both of his brothers plopped down across from him and a cup of coffee appeared between his hands, already sweetened the way he liked it.

“Okay, Sanji, level with us. What’s up?” Carne had always been the more patient of the two of them, so it wasn’t any surprise that he was the one to pick up on the changes.

Patty, he was sure, was giving him the famous Stare Down, which meant he couldn’t come up with a way to articulate what he was feeling but he was quite confused, but trying to be supportive.

However, the walk back to the diner had been no different than the walk from it, complete with bubble of too-cold air that meant the other people out and about, which he could clearly hear shuffling around, had done that thing again. The one where they deliberately circled around him like they were afraid he was going to lash out. Not an entirely unfounded fear, but still, the isolation stung his pride. It undermined the confidence he’d had with Zoro.

“Nevermind, this was a mistake. I should go.” He moved to get up, but Patty, whose hands were distinct by the pattern of knife scars across his palm, grabbed his arm gently below the cuff of his coat.

“Lil Bro, c’mon now. You know us better than that.”

Sanji sighed, sinking a little deeper into the booth. He ran his fingers over the rim of his coffee mug, staring sightlessly at the table. 

After a significant pause, he sighed, “I cooked today.”

“WHAT?!” Patty stood, banging his knee on the table, and knocking Carne into the wall.

“That’s great, San! What’d ya make!?” Carne’s voice came from a closer distance than Sanji anticipated, giving him a faceful of stale coffee and fried potatoes on the man’s breath.

Giving a small cough brought them both back into a suitable level of calmness for Sanji to continue, “My new neighbor…”

“Wait a sec! I thought you said nobody could have your penthouse without matching your rules?” Carne scowled, audibly.

“I did.” Sanji gave a rueful chuckle, “And somehow they found a guy who met ‘em.” He shook his head, a smile tugging at his lips without his knowledge, “He can’t cook for shit. Didn’t even recognize unsweetened blackberry preserves when I put it in front of him. Tried to tell me that he wouldn’t have anything to do with it because it was sweet. As if I would pair something sweet with Jasmine tea! Ha! Only an idiot would undermine a flavor that delicate.”

“So…” Carne prompted.

“So… I don’t know yet.”

Patty slammed his hand on the table, “What’s there to know! Cook with us! You know we’ve been asking you for years now.”

“I’m not ready for that!” Sanji growled.

Carne made a noise.

“What!?”

“Well it seems to me that you’ve found your temper. So... “

Patty picked it up from him with a smugness that carried through, “So if you’re put together enough to snap at me, you’re put together enough to get back in the saddle!”

“That was a horrible metaphor.” Sanji sighed, rubbing his temple, “But fine…”

“YES!” Patty shouted again.

“DON’T INTERRUPT YOU SHITTY RUTABAGA!” And his foot lashed out without thinking, catching Patty across the ass with a solid thunk.

Everything froze for a second, each of them disbelieving what had just happened actually HAD happened. Carne was standing, keeping his balance on the corner of the table. Patty, whose ass was thoroughly marred by the imprint of Sanji’s shoe, was sprawling on the end of the counter, staring with a slack jaw at Sanji. Who in turn was standing at the edge of the booth, blinking his damaged eyes in response to an automatic response that he hadn’t had the fire to perform in literally years.

Patty broke the stillness of course, “I like this new guy! He’s a good influence on you!”

Blushing deeper, Sanji squirmed, his hands in his pockets, “We’ll see.”

~*~

Zoro turned out to be a very quiet neighbor. He walked softly, played his music equally softly, and when he wasn't at work he worked out almost non-stop. Huffs of breath and the occasional soft grunt of exertion was the extent of real noise other than the shower, which he sometimes took two or three of a day. He didn't get calls; he didn't own a phone. A cell phone, which Sanji had never heard him use, but no phone. He didn't have guests over.

And then one morning he took his attention off breakfast for two fucking seconds and the stench of burning rice took over his apartment. It permeated everywhere, and it was so strong he opened the window to try and air it out.

Within moments there was a knock at his door that somehow sounded amused for all that it was just the rasp of knuckles on wood.

With a grunt of irritation, he set the rice cooker to the side and went to open the door. "C'mon in."

Sanji gave a light cough and waved a hand in front of his face. "You weren't kidding it appears." With a smile tugging the corner of his mouth, he toed off his shoes and entered, "Show me what you've done."

"I took my eyes off the goddamn rice for one second to check on the fish," he grumbled as he stepped over to where he'd set said burnt rice and scowled at it.

Without really thinking about it, he'd walked deliberately a little heavier so Sanji could follow him a little easier.

Lifting the pot to his face, the blond inhaled deeply. "It's not bad, but get your fish or you won't have anything to go with what I'm about to do."

He waved absently at the pan with the frying filets, and shifted to the side, running his hand along the cabinets. Somehow, his fingers looked lost in thought. Then he tightened his grip on a handle and began pulling out spices and oils he was certain the swordsman didn't even know were there, let alone how to use. A shift of weight from one foot to the other brought him back in front of the partially ruined rice, and then it was blur of movement. Scooping the rice out, the spinning of a decanter of oil, several shakes of one spice, only a pinch or two of another, and then he stopped, the flurry of movement seemingly halted as a tiny bite was lifted to his lips. He frowned over it, and mixed the stuff again. Then he turned, and cocked his head to the side.

"You're in the way."

The swordsman made a vaguely amused sound as he put the finished fish on a plate and the pan back on the stove before moving entirely out of the kitchen.

Several confident strides across the kitchen to the refrigerator and Sanji snorted, bent over and peering into the ice box as though he could actually see the mostly bare shelves. "You need to go grocery shopping. Your selection is pathetic. Alcohol of any sort is not a staple, but not beer especially."

Then he grabbed several things, including a bottle of the beer, and brought them over to the counter. Again his hand hovered over the knife block, as if contemplating something. When it finally decided, he spun the blade in the center of his palm several times, and in another seemingly concise but frantic motion, the onion, pepper, and mushrooms were diced into neat, perfectly identical cubes. He flicked the fire back on under the pan from the fish, scraping the semi-hardened juices from the bottom, and using the back of the knife, slid the vegetables and rice all into the pan with another dash of oil.

The scent preceded the sound of sizzling, and Sanji seemed to hum as he waited for things to do their thing in the pan. He shifted his weight to the side, tapping his toe, and for all intents and purposes, looking more alive than he had in the several months that the swordsman had been living next to him. And that included near-daily trips to and from his brothers’ diner. He even popped the beer open and took a swig of it before adding the rest to the pan. When it hit, the alcohol made a huge flash of orange and blue, having caught the edge of the flame below, but the cook didn't even shift his stance except to flip the rice somewhat for a more even coating.

Zoro watched with a sort of mystified awe from the doorway, being very quiet so as not to disturb him. Questions and comments could be saved for later. Interrupting an artist at work came at high prices and consequences.

He knew that from experience.

"Hm." Sanji tasted it again, with a new fork. "It'll have to do."

He spun, took a real plate from the cupboard, portioned the rice in the center, snagged the fish back from the other man, and used the juices from the pan to drizzle heat over what he could smell was a rather bland cut of flesh. A third hovering moment, and a sprig of cilantro topped the dish. Then he offered it with an expectant look of challenge canting his head to the side, for all that his bangs still hid his full expression.

Zoro took the plate with a simple shrug. "Aren't you having any? That's more than I can eat," he gestured in the direction of the pan.

"I suppose, though..." And for the first time since the blond had shown up, he hesitated, as though everything else had been muscle memory, habit, unconscious. Now, it seemed he was thinking again. "It won't be up to par. It's been too long since I cooked like this for it to be any good."

He took a plate anyway, and duplicated his preparations, including the cilantro.

"Not up to par? I call bullshit," Zoro said after a suspiciously loud swallow. "For one thing it's the best goddamn thing I've eaten since I came here, and for another, you used that weird black magic of yours AND you taste-tested."

"Oi! It ain't black magic. It's called skill, and it's learned. And yes, it's not up to par. At the..." He hesitated, a chill running through him, "At the height of my career I could have made this ten times better with fewer ingredients. I'm out of practice." But he did smile slightly, "I suppose now you're going to tell me to practice by cooking for you all the time, eh?"

There was another loud swallow. Christ, was he eating half the bowl at a time?

"If you want to. I'm not gonna demand you do, but I do know a warrior's fuel affects his skill and this is a lot better than what I've been living off since I moved in. Though how you knew I had that in there I'm going to insist until I die is magic, black or otherwise. I can't cook; why would I have groceries on hand?"

"The pepper works well as a muscle relaxer, and the onion is almost as good a cleanser as lemon. The beer… that was an assumption based on the lingering scent of alcohol on your clothing and the fact that I already knew you were a habitual drinker. Beer is cheap, and I know your dojo job doesn't pay well. You take the same bus I do every morning, and yet still manage to be wearing virtually the same well-worn clothes you wore the first time I met you." Sanji spaced his own eating with his words. "And don't choke on your food. There is enough that I can make more if you're still hungry."

"I've been hungry since I left Japan," Zoro commented offhandedly, but nevertheless became audibly slower in his eating. "But what do my clothes have to do with anything? Nothing I own is too worn to wear yet; no reason to get it replaced. Would be a waste of resources and time."

The blond stilled, and set his plate on the counter. He spoke softly, with a dangerous, dark tone, "No one should go hungry. Ever."

"It's not like—I just can't cook. It doesn't turn out right and I never get the right portions, and usually I'm too low on time to make any more. It's not like I go days without eating or anything..."

The pinch of hunger in an orphan's belly never seemed to fill, not when they were uncomfortable, in a strange land with customs that confused them. Vulnerability led inevitably to old tics popping up again.

The blond sighed, "Come with me, marimo. We're going shopping."

Sanji rinsed his plate in the sink, and didn't wait for the swordsman to answer before moving over to put his shoes back on.

"Wha—wait we are?" He blinked as he cleaned his own plate. "What makes you think I'm even available? For all you know I have work today."

"You don't. It's Friday. The dojo is closed on Fridays. You usually spend the morning meditating in the middle of the living room floor, then sometime around noon you change to yoga for balance, and finally by mid-afternoon you're swinging those ungodly weights you have hiding in what used to be my walk-in closet." Sanji tapped his toe to settle his shoe. "So, let's go."

"Son of a bitch. You're like an auditory stalker, knowing all my routines and shit," Zoro grumbled good-naturedly as he yanked on his shoes and shrugged into a jacket. "Fine, let's get some food for this pitiful dwelling. And then you make lunch?"

He tacked that on with a bit of hopefulness he didn't bother trying to cover up. Sanji made him the best food he'd eaten since leaving home.

"Yes, I'll make lunch." The cook shook his head, then through a grin over his shoulder as he exited the apartment. "And it's not considered stalking if I'm not doing it on purpose. Stalking would be the fact that I know Luffy stole your underwear from the laundry room last week, so you've been commando ever since."

"...the fact that you do know that means you just admitted to stalking me, you know that, right cook?" Zoro snickered as he followed behind him, and it was completely without thinking he reached forward and grabbed Sanji's coat.

People mysteriously tended to wander away from him if he didn't hold onto them. Like the moving buildings. It was a bitch to find them again.

Eyes that couldn't see actually traced the hand on his arm up to the face of the one behind him, "That's a problem? Someone has to look after your pathetic ass. You certainly can't do it on your own."

He pulled the swordsman into the elevator with him, and almost forgot to school his features as they reached the lobby. The sounds of Luffy running away from his platonic life-partner, and the chortle of the complex's resident senior swordsman mingled with the punctuated shouts of amazement from Chopper, who was without a doubt listening to some fabrication Usopp was spinning as usual. The fact that all of them were around meant that chances were the often-times too-intelligent Nico Robin was hanging around with her husband, and the apartments' chief architect. There was the possibility that it meant most of the rest of the complex was out and about, tending gardens or causing trouble, and as the pair stepped into the lobby, Sanji froze, having just realized he would have to wade through all of those people both to leave, and then again, to return… bearing groceries.

Zoro paused when Sanji did. And he would never know quite what possessed him in that moment, but he leaned forward until his breath ghosted over Sanji's ear and breathed, "Fuck it. Just go ahead and do it. Don't think. You make mistakes when you think, cook. Over-thinking leads to burnt food when you don't move quick enough. You have shit to do and whatever you think is an obstacle only is if you let it. Ignore it. Otherwise I'll take the lead."

And by now, Zoro's non-sense of direction was building legend. Even GPS's got turned around somehow, just magically malfunctioned, if he was holding them.

Unconsciously, Sanji leaned into the intimate touch with a sharp inhale. The city's playboy had been without physical touch for entirely too long, and the words brought a shiver running down his spine. He nodded, and the moment, combined with the two being in such close quarters brought a still to the commotion of the lobby. Sanji could feel their eyes on him. Luffy tried to call out, but he knew Nami pounced on the brunet because the word didn't even leave his lips.

The blond took a fortifying breath and stepped forward, determination on his face, but he muttered over his shoulder, "I'm not cooking for all of them too."

Zoro smiled to himself. "I wouldn't ask you to. Asking anyone to cook for Luffy is just cruel, much less the rest. Besides. They're not the ones who live alone and aren't allowed near stoves."

The grip on his sleeve slipped down until he was holding his hand. It was more comfortable.

It was all too easy to lace his fingers with the swordsman's and Sanji tried to ignore the warmth that bubbled from inside at the touch. He hadn't felt like this in far longer than just his accident. An over the top flirt and consummate womanizer according to the tabloids, Sanji Noire had not been this close to another human being since before ascending to Head Chef of the Baratie. So, it wasn't entirely without thought that he stepped closer to the man who'd become like a gateway back to himself.

The walk to the grocery store down the street was short, but he relished every moment of it.

Zoro didn't know any of this. He didn't need to. But he felt the coolness of Sanji's hand warm in his grasp and he enjoyed it. Of course, once at the store he had to let go in order to fetch all the odd and frankly incomprehensible items Sanji demanded he put in the cart.

By the end of the trip, the swordsman was sure to think that Sanji was going overboard, but really the green-haired Asian needed literally everything from staples to spices to a new rice cooker. It was as they were browsing the store's small selection of cooking pots that the murmurs started. Someone with normal hearing wouldn't even have noticed, but several years of blindness having sharpened Sanji's senses, every word was loud and clear.

"Isn't that Sanji Noire?!"

"The famous chef?! I heard he wasn't cooking anymore."

"I heard he'd been banned from ever setting foot in a kitchen again."

"Why?"

"It was some big blow up at that restaurant he owned. The news said it burned to the ground. They even hinted that he did it on purpose to get rid of his father for the insurance money."

"NO! I can't believe it, really?!"

"So, then what's he doing here? Surely he's not cooking again is he?"

"Maybe it's for that guy he's with."

"The big one with the nasty scar on his face? You think maybe they're partners?"

"He looks like he could be the only one who could handle Sanji's temper. He was a real hothead back then. The second something went wrong in his kitchen they say he was kicking people through walls and breaking bones."

A gasp, "And then there were the women! He was such a philanderer. A new girlfriend every day they said."

By the time they reached the check-out lane, a crowd had begun to follow them at what they thought was a safe distance, still whispering, each rumor getting more outlandish than the last. This was why he never went out anymore. He was too well-known. Even five years after his accident, the people of the city still knew who he was, in spite that he kept his head down, shadowed his face, wore trenchcoats and scarves to cover his appearance as best he could, somehow they could all still tell, and it irked him horribly. It was so bad that his grip on the basket handle made an ominous crack in the plastic that echoed to his hearing.

An answering crack came from beside him and finally Zoro'd had enough. He turned and, completely calmly, closed the gap between the crowd and himself. His one eye burning, while he did not raise his voice, it carried over the whole of the store.

"Rumor and propitious slander of lies that get steadily less logical and more outrageous is unbefitting of what I've been told American society is. Because of who you believe this person is, you suddenly think horrible things, accuse him of doing things your murderers have been killed for, not taking into account that if any of it were true he would be in your jail. And not once did I hear any single one of you propose the truth, which absolutely astonishes me because you constantly brag to other countries how progressive and intelligent you are."

He stepped back beside the blond.

"I am a foreigner in this country that is now to be my home, and this man is simply my friend. He is helping me get groceries because I do not read English well and keeping track of me because I get lost easily in your strange city of metal and stone where all the buildings look the same. He is my neighbor, and showing neighborly kindness."

The look he gave the crowd, which he did such that every person thought he was looking directly at them, was intentionally meant to shame the living fuck out of them all. "Now why could not a single one of you suggest this simple, harmless, situation? C'mon Blondie… let's get back to the building."

And then, just to drive it home, he added, "we go left from here, right?"

"Uh… no. It's right, then left." Sanji blinked several times, though that couldn't be seen through the curtain of his hair, and he gathered an armful of bags from the end of the checkout lane. As soon as they were out of earshot, he turned his head slightly. "You didn't have to do that."

Also loaded up with bags, Zoro snorted. "Yeah I did. They were pissing me off. And they were making you hunch the way you do when you hate yourself for no reason, and that's bullshit."

There was a jerk through the cook's body and he turned a teasing smile on the other, "Now who's the stalker, memorizing my thought patterns?"

"Nah, just the bodily responses. I'm a fighter, I have to be good at those," he ribbed with a chuckle. "But I do know enough to pick out some things, cook. Especially the ones I don't like and want to prevent."

"Heh. Marimo." Sanji mumbled fondly, reaching for a cigarette.

It was a vice he didn't indulge as much anymore, but somehow at that moment it seemed like the perfect cover for what he really wanted to do. So, he used the lighter and nicotine to occupy his hands until he could get his other craving under control such that he could grab on to the larger man's shirt and pull him along back to their apartment building, and if in the process the backs of his knuckles brushed toned flesh, well, that was just a perk now wasn't it.

Seeing as both arms and hands were full, Zoro followed the pull docilely. And if he happened to like and savor every brush of knuckles kissing his skin, well, that was just a bonus.

A bonus he wasn't going to talk about.

"So, what do you want for lunch, since I'm making it." The blond finished his smoke before they entered the apartment building again, but the scent did not go unnoticed by the doorman and his Nakama.

"Uh… shit. Don't ask me hard questions like that! Anything. I'll eat anything, swear to the kami. I have no idea what the hell you can make with all this stuff you insisted I need." He was unaware of Sanji's cutbacks on his habit, and equally unaware of its significance.

"How did I know you were going to say that, shit-swordsman?" The cook shook his head and stepped into the elevator, yanking his partner along a little more harshly than he had before, but his tone was light and amused.

The doors dinged closed, and Luffy practically crushed the phone, "NAMI! NAMI! SANJI'S SMOKING AGAIN!!!"

She shoved him off, growling, "I FUCKING SMELLED THAT!"

Inside, Zoro just laughed. "Maybe because I've admitted I can't cook, blondie?"

"Just because you can't cook, doesn't mean you don't know what you like to eat. There is a difference, or is there more vegetation to your genetics than just your hair color?" Still sly, Sanji deliberately nudged his shoulder.

He snorted and nudged back. "I like to eat. It's easier to pick out what I don't like than what I do; the only thing I don't like is things that are overly sweet. But I assure you I'm not a plant… I fucking love red meat."

"There are plants that eat meat. Ask Usopp about it, I think he specializes in them." The blond snorted, and on a whim nudged a bit harder, pushing the swordsman out of the elevator first.

Zoro snickered as he opened the door and started putting things away. "That man, if he starts with "I once" or "The Great Captain Usopp" I already know it's a lie. Which is always."

"Word of warning, don't go walking through Robin-chan's garden at night without boots on. He may lie about a lot of things, but growing carnivorous plants seems to be the third thing he's good at." He followed, and again, he wasn't quite sure what had come over him, but as soon as he put the bags down, his foot snaked out to boot Zoro's behind as he bent over to move the beer from one side of the fridge to the other. It wasn't enough to knock the swordsman off balance, but there was power behind his kick nonetheless.

Zoro bolted upright with a hand on his ass. "Ohhhhh if there weren't groceries to put away… you tryin'a get a fight outta me, cook?"

"Maybe. If you think you can." The blond skirted him, smirking, and stood on tiptoe to push a box of cornmeal up on the top shelf of a cupboard, the hem of his hoodie riding up to reveal several inches of toned, pale stomach.

Zoro just 'happened' to scrape his wrist along that lovely bare bit of skin as he reached around Sanji to open a lower cupboard and put away a box of crackers with a low smirk. "Oh, I can if you can."

Sanji shivered. Skin on skin. Oh yes. He'd missed this far too much. It took him all of a minute to snag the last of the groceries and taunt, "Bring it, shitty swordsman."

Little did either know, they had an audience outside the door, where Luffy, Usopp, Chopper and Brook were all pressed against the wood, straining to hear the two arguing. The doorman bounced with excitement, and Usopp grumbled as quietly as he could for the straw hat-wearing-perpetual child to kindly shut the fuck up so he could hear?

Within, the blond stepped out into the middle of the living room, gently nudging the coffee table out of the way with his shin, just like his neighbor did every morning before meditation, and rested his weight on his left heel.

"Let me get the mats down. Last thing we need between us is broken bones. I can't afford to lose the pay," Zoro snickered, pulling them out from where they'd been stored and rolling them into the open space, knowing Sanji would be able to hop up just long enough for him to lay it down before landing on it.

Brook grinned to himself, ear against the door.

The blond rolled his shoulders and his neck cracked, then he flexed his toes and the mat groaned under him. "True, I wouldn't want to be responsible for putting you out of work."

"Nope." Zoro stretched, joints popping. "Because then you'd have to deal with the slew of well-meaning idiots coming up here to make sure I stay alive."

"And how horrid that would be." Sanji shuddered, balancing his stance, his right leg loose and ready.

He had a fire in his veins that he hadn't felt in a long time, too long, and he found himself hyper aware of what was going on around him, regardless of his missing sight. Time seemed to slow, as though he could hear each individual beat of a honeybee's wing, the ripple of the blades of grass in the courtyard far below, and the trickle of sweat down a neck too thick to be female. He closed his eyes, though it ordinarily made no difference, and waited, hovering on the edge of something he couldn't name but desperately needed.

Then- there it was, a swish-flick that stopped just short of Sanji's body. A second swish-flick, this time on the other side. Bokken. That was the sound of air whistling over shaped wood.

Then the heat-presence before him came forward, a flash, a testing tap to see how quick Sanji's reflexes were.

The cook struck out, his roundhouse testing but promising that there was strength hidden beneath the surface. He grinned, his ankle touching the skin of an immovable object.

Zoro chuckled, a dark rumble of sound, his eye lit up for the first time since he'd left his Master's house.

Tap, tap, another test, another prod, this time faster and harder. How fast could he go?

Sanji matched him blow for blow, both left and right. Stronger, faster, harder. They both pushed, never moving more than five feet from each other. The bokken cracked against his shin bone with the sound like it shattered the bone but decades of training against wood far harder than bamboo and less flexible meant that the sound was all there was to it. He kept grinning, and moved onto the offensive.

"C'mon, shitty swordsman, gimme all you got."

"Can't do that," he replied, almost eagerly. "My other bokken broke."

But even on the defense, he could feel his adrenaline starting to surge, could feel his muscles pumping up. Ohhhh, yes! His strikes switched, defense, offense, defense, counter, working himself harder and quicker to match the blond's speed. He'd never fought someone who used their feet and legs like this before, and the sheer thrill of fighting against a new style was working Zoro to push himself in ways he'd never had to before.

"We'll," kick, "have to," block, "get you," roundhouse, "a new one," parry, "then."

Heel to bokken to shin to ankle to heel. Sanji took them in a circle, strangely aware of exactly where the coffee table and couch and wall were. He spun them, traveling carefully, and pressing his advantage when he wasn't defending. Then he felt the swordsman move back a step. He didn't know what possessed him to do it, he hadn't attempted it more than a couple of times since his accident, and those had proved to make him severely disoriented, but he flipped forward without thinking, down onto his hands, spinning both feet around and disarming his sparring partner with a one-two quick succession of hits. He was back upright again before the wooden swords even clattered to the side, breathing slightly harder and a tension in his neck that betrayed he really wasn't sure which way he was facing anymore.

"Son of a BITCH!"

Zoro stumbled, his hands numb from the force they'd just had rip his swords from his hands, the first time since Mihawk started training him he'd actually lost his grip. He actually stumbled straight back onto his ass with a floor-rattling THUD, thoroughly disoriented.

"Kami. Looks like I NEED my third to take you on," he said casually as he stood up and moved over to where both his swords had fallen. "I'm too numb to continue today," he added as he went over to the sword stand and put them away, the wooden sword forms clattering loudly as he forced his numb hands to put them back in their racks, and having a difficult time doing it.

"Ah. Yeah... sorry about that." Sanji rubbed the back of his neck, still getting his bearings, "I didn't know I was gonna do it, until I did. You, uh, you do that to me often."

The sword rack was against the wall, next to the couch, right? That meant that he was facing the bathroom, right? And he should be able to take two steps to the edge of the mat to get to the futon that was the man's bed. Fuck. He really needed to practice that more often so he could fix this. His voice was shaky and uncertain, and wrong! He clearly should have been holding his win over his—dare he say friend's?—head, but instead he was nervous, like he was scared of himself. And he wore it like a poorly tailored jacket.

Zoro tried to help: in his own way, of course. "Yeah, and that's a pretty good thing. I sure as hell wasn't expecting you to do that. That took more flexibility than I've seen in a long time." Then he paused. "Two steps forward, one left, so I can roll up the mats, please. And then you can sit on the bed. Er, futon."

The blind man did just that, relief flooding his frame. Once he sat, he smirked, his confidence returned. "So, when are we gonna get that third for you?"

He snorted. "Maybe when I find a half-ass decent sword shop in this city. After the thing with the shitty chopsticks, I'm sure as hell not going to give anyone my money for a splintery, bound bokken like they sell here. I've had enough splinters to last a lifetime."

"And no matter how much you beg, I'm not removing splinters from your tongue!" Sanji laughed, and pushed himself off the futon, his steps once more the familiar, proud gait he used when in the swordsman's home. "I may know someone who can help, but it's not going to be cheap. He's particular about the quality of stuff he gets, and there's really only one shop he ever goes to. But… eh… I haven't talked to him in a while."

Which was code for 'before the accident'.

"Well, I don't really need one. I do have my real swords. But that's not something I would fight you with. Not that I don't think you're strong enough, you obviously are, but it would insult them terribly to waste them on a spar. I'll just get my ass whipped every time we spar." He flashed a quick grin.

"So you admit that you have no chance against a blind man." Sanji teased, crossing back into the kitchen and beginning to pull ingredients from the cabinets.

"I admit I have no chance against YOU," he corrected. "Anyone else, except my Master, I could probably whup. And a third sword might get me even with you again."

"Ha! I bet I could still kick your ass, even if you did have a third sword." The knife the cook was holding spun in his hand several times before coming down on the aromatics on his cutting board with decisive punctuation.

Zoro chuckled. "Maybe not, now that I've seen how you fight. I'll be better prepared next time." 

He moved the table back where it belonged, the scrape of it soft but distinct, and then he sank into a sieza to wait for Sanji to work his kitchen black magic.

It didn't take long, just some fried rice and vegetables with shrimp, dipped in panko and flash fried. Really nothing fancy. A single bowl for each of them and laughter that carried the scent out into the hallway, where Brook, Luffy and Usopp were still leaning against the door, listening.

"MAH! I want Sanji's food too!" The youngest wailed, only to be pounced on by his long-nosed friend.

"Shush!!" His voice a dramatic whisper. "They'll hear you!!"

Zoro opened the door and watched all three people land inside his doorway with several loud thuds and shook his head at them. "You realize you're ridiculous."

"But we were concerned! I couldn't just let my favorite sparring partner get his ass handed to him without witnessing it! Or at least hearing it, yohohoho!"

Luffy grinned and Usopp gulped loudly, both looking up at the swordsman from the floor. The self-made gardener pushed up and flattened himself against the opposite wall in fear of retribution. His thick bottom lip quivered and tears floated in his eyes as his knees shook. The most guilty of the three though just bounced up and made like he was going to enter the apartment to get at the food. Any response Zoro would have had to that was pre-empted by Sanji pushing his way through the group with his shoulder. The bony point of it caught Luffy in the sternum and his spine was hunched in that defensive, closed off, walls against the world way of his.

Before anyone could say anything else, the blond's door was shut and locked with a definitive sound that had Luffy's smile falling from his face.

Zoro was left staring at the closed door in confusion for a moment before his face took on an expression like thunder.

"Go."

Even Brook winced. "We didn't mean—"

"It happened anyway. Go."

Usopp was the first to the elevator, hauling Luffy along with him like a stuffed animal. He barely waited for the middle-aged swordsman to enter the lift before pushing the button and escaping. His voice filtered back berating the youngest for his enthusiasm with more worry in his tone than anger. How badly had the cook been set back by having been discovered?

After a moment, Zoro knocked on the door. "Sanji?"

There was no answer but the sounds of the slender man moving about his apartment filtered through the door. He was throwing something. Something heavy. And it crashed when it landed, multiple times.

"Sanji! If you have to throw something throw me, I'm the idiot who opened the door," he knocked harder, voice risen to a yell.

"No." Was all the blind man said.

Two more thrown thumps and there was a crash, accompanied by a strangled yell, the kind that indicated he'd fallen off of something.

Oh that was it! The door's lock splintered under the ramming force of Zoro's shoulder, letting him in so he could help.

The scene was obvious. Sanji was sprawled in the middle of the floor, a ladder toppled beside him which told how he fell, and scattered about him in a circle were his cookbooks. All of them having been flung from the shelf where they'd been meticulously kept, safe and clean, the entire time Zoro had known the ex-cook. And for once, the blond fringe that was the most important part of the blind man's mask was flipped back to reveal the scarring around his eyes where he'd been injured in his accident. Something he'd kept closely hidden, less because he thought the swordsman would judge him, and more for his own vanity. It was true that his eyebrows no longer curled the way they had before, but what bothered him more was the fact that he was sure his irises, once compared to the ocean by Vanity Fair, were ruined, clouded over and opaque. And call him self-absorbed but he didn't want anyone to see that.

Zoro went to him immediately, picking up the more slender man and running his fingers over his legs with his free hand worriedly, checking for breaks, while his feet carefully picked between the strewn cookbooks as he went to the bed in the corner.

"Did you sprain anything?  What did you hit when you fell?"

Sanji shrugged him off, surly and angry, "I'm fine. M'not a fuckin' invalid."

"You just fell off a fucking ladder you don't HAVE to be an invalid!"  His voice had some... hint to it, something hiding just under the surface at his change in pitch, and the hand he ran over Sanji's ribs up to his neck, sweeping frantically for injuries, trembled.

The blond took his hand and held it, angry but that connection between them, that thing that had drawn the former chef to actually pick up his tools again in the first place, vibrated at the contact. "I'm fine."

He held still, but his breathing was labored.  "...You're sure?"

"Yes." Some sense of understanding passed through his tone.

He didn't know why the bulkier man was terrified of him falling off the ladder, but he recognized it for the phobia it was. Thus, he reached out with his other hand and guided the one he held to his neck, showing the swordsman he was whole, unbroken and not even bruised all that much.

Thick fingers curled around the slender column, feeling it delicately, and then Zoro's body relaxed with a long, soft breath. "Yeah. You're... you're okay. Yeah."

He sank down on the bed slowly, the dying adrenaline rush leaving him even shakier as he held Sanji securely and let the hand on his neck slide up, to his hair, and gently brush his mussed bangs back over his eyes.

Unthinking, the ex-cook leaned into the touch, still affection starved. He curled his hands in Zoro's shirt, letting the swordsman pull him into his lap.

Zoro continued petting him, still calming down from his irrational fear, cradling Sanji's body like he had once cradled the body of his dearest friend. But Sanji was alive.

After several quiet minutes, the blond shifted a tiny bit closer, balancing on his knees. "What was his name?"

Unlike usual, he took a second to answer. Typically, he just answered whatever Sanji asked, him and his black magic observational skill. This time it took him a moment to regroup.  "Kuina. She was... my rival. Only kid close to my age in the dojo, but far superior skill. Of course, her dad ran the place."

His shoulders shuddered.

"I'm sorry about what happened to her." Sanji wrapped his arms around the Marimo’s head and neck, the height to bury his friend's face against his chest afforded to him by their positioning. Sanji pressed a kiss into the short spikes. He didn't need to have Zoro speak, he didn't need the story, all he needed to know was that this vibrant, unshakable man was in pain, and for the first time in his life, the former chef really didn't care who saw what.

Zoro clung to him, his hands wrapped around him and resting high on his shoulders as he cried. Normally thinking about her didn't make him so emotional, only more determined, but today he'd had a terrible scare. He'd almost lost Sanji the same way. Steps, always fucking steps. And step ladders.

The blond rubbed his cheek against the other's hair, shushing quietly, and holding him tightly. His own issues from earlier were shoved into the back of his mind, though a few quiet tears of his own slipped over his nose, knowing all too well what it was like to lose family too soon. He'd give anything to have the geezer back, anything at all if it would work, but things didn't work that way. All either of them could do was move forward, press on with their goals, and hope that those who'd been left behind were watching. Though maybe not too closely, because much to Sanji's dismay his body couldn't tell the difference between cuddling for comfort and cuddling as a precursor to sex.

Zoro calmed after some time, his face rising to press into Sanji's neck as he let out a long sigh. "I'm sorry. I got scared." And he wasn't embarrassed to admit that, either. "I don't usually break down over things like this."

He sniffed a bit and his hands pushed into blond locks, almost petting.

Torn between sarcasm and reassurance, Sanji coughed a little, a blush coloring his cheeks, and an air of awkwardness settling over him. There was a time in his life when he would have taken the swordsman to bed, kissed him goodbye in the morning and never thought about this day ever again. But no longer was he the playboy philanthropist he'd once been, and it showed in his uncertainty. Should he press forward and physically console the other man, or should he back off, allow their connection to resume as friends with banter and a strange ability to demand the best out of them both at all times. What he wound up doing was just shaking his head.

"It's fine."

His lips ran along Sanji's jaw when he turned his head. "Alright. Then, why don't I help you clean up? You tell me where stuff goes, I'll put it there."

The shudder that ran down his spine was obvious. "L-leave them. For now..." It shook his voice and had him clenching the swordsman like a drowning man. "Y-you should... be careful... with that..."

"With what?" His lips were slightly chapped, had ridged scars in places from splitting with the force of holding onto his sword. They moved against his skin in a soft rasp.

"You're making it very ha—difficult!" Sanji caught himself and tucked his chin so that his cheek was pressed against Zoro's temple, without thinking that this moved the swordsman's mouth from his jaw to his ear. "Difficult to resist you."

He dug his fingers into the other man's hair, a sort of desperation he'd kept tightly controlled until now vibrating through the touch.

Strong, warm hands stroked slowly down Sanji's sides, and a hint of something warm and wet touched the shell of his ear.

"Do you really need to resist me?" Those callused fingers found their way beneath his shirt. "I've never known a better way to work off the remnants of adrenaline and fear."

"B-but..." All of his excuses seemed to die on his lips at the touches.

He couldn't help it. Five years of celibacy with nothing but his hand, and even then, only whenever he wasn't down from the reality of his situation... He curled around Zoro, bringing both hands back to the front to put an inch of space between them, his face angled down to hide his expression. "You shouldn't want to with me. I'm not... I'm damaged goods, bruised and overripe before you even got here."

His hand caressed one scarred cheek. "And I'm not? I may have sight in one eye, but if you could see the scars I have over the rest of me... I'm as damaged as you, Sanji. And it's not your body that matters to me, though I have no complaints about it," he chuckled, other hand running up a toned calf. "It's your mind that draws me in, and even a little dented and damaged, it's still shining and powerful. I can't think why I wouldn't want to with you."

"My reputation." The blond shivered again, wanting but scared. "My name is Sanji Noire. I was the biggest playboy this side of Raftel, and there wasn't a single bed in this city that didn't have me in it at some point. I know you haven't lived here long, and I appreciate that you didn't know the restaurant until I told you about it, but you had to have been living under a rock to not hear about the scandals involving my name. How... how could you want someone like that? How do you know I won't just leave you?"

Zoro was quiet while he struggled to put his thoughts and feelings into words. Dammit, this was hard!

"I've heard of you, but I never put much stock in magazine and tabloid stories," he started with, speaking slowly as he organized what he wanted to say. "And what a person does in the privacy of their own bedroom—or anyone else's—is their business, not mine. A scandal doesn't make a person, it doesn't mean anything as to their personalities... I don't know you wouldn't just leave me. But I'm not asking you for the world. Just a night. Maybe whenever we feel like it if you like it. And if you did choose to leave that arrangement, well, that's what makes you happy right? I'd still get to see you and I'd hope we'd still be friends. I don't think you'd, or at least I hope you wouldn't, move across town just to get away from me, regardless if we're in any kind of relationship or not."

The cook's shoulders shook, though his laughter wasn't obvious until he spoke, "You idiot."

He reached up, placed his hands on other side of Zoro's face and skimmed the man's cheekbones with his thumb, absently tracing the scars and features. His mirth faded as he took in the proud nose and squared jaw, having never actually 'seen' what his almost lover 'looked' like before. He made a soft 'oh' sound when his fingertips touched the place where a heavy brow was bisected, drawing a feather-light touch down its length. He knew, of course, but knowing and feeling were two different things.

The eye was closed though, and the socket was firm; a glass eye, maybe? Something to prevent the socket's collapse.

Zoro was at ease, his tone light and gently teasing. "Bigger than you thought, hm?"

"Knowing you can't see out of it, and knowing what happened are two different things. And no matter how many times you say it, I don't actually have black magic powers." Sanji teased back.

He moved on to run his fingers through the stubble of a day without shaving to the lips that had been setting his jaw on fire. He paused with the pads of his fingertips pressed against Zoro's mouth, his index traced the outline of the swordsman's upper lip, and then he drew them down, to curl under his chin so he could give in to the desire to use his most relied on sense: taste.

Zoro came easily, a smile on his lips, and when a curious tongue pressed against his lips he let it through, his own joining it in a silky slide that left him tingling in places he hadn't given much thought to in quite a long while.

Like a wine laced with opium, Sanji devoured his mouth, closing the distance he'd made with a soft noise of approval. His skin sang with feeling and the clothing needed to go.... like yesterday! He pulled at the swordsman's shirt, whatever trepidation he'd had before burned away with a passion that consumed his whole being, the same passion he used in the other things that were true to his real self.

A gentle hand on his own stopped that.

"I'll take it off. Just be warned... the map you're going to feel carved into my skin tells the tale of my answer to that question you asked me the first day we met," he cautioned him softly. "When I told you 'death before dishonor' is my creed. My proof is in my skin... and you're about to get a double handful of it."

Still, Zoro pulled it off up over his head, leaving his torso bare for Sanji's exquisitely sensitive fingers.

The muscles he expected, the deep grooves between groups that came from intense workouts and decades of training. The cook actually seemed to purr as he traced the strength obvious in the swordsman's shoulders and arms, from deltoid to his wrists and back up again, just relishing the feel of his skin. Then he drew inwards, and his right hand found the scar. He jumped away from it at first, not expecting the depth of the gnarled tissues, and he gasped. But determined to learn what he couldn't see, Sanji brought his hand back, one palm flat against the hot plane of Zoro's pectoral, the other ran the length of that cut, feather-light as he had with the one on the other's face, but mapping the contours of it; the thick, hard bumps; the deep grooves; the places where stitches had held the man's insides inside where they belonged. The cook could tell that he'd had serious damage done to him and he bit off the questions that immediately surfaced about how and when and where and most importantly who.

A familiar hot hand traced up his neck and to his jaw, tickling behind his ear. "Another time, I'll tell you. But it would completely spoil the mood at the moment. There are others. See if you can find them all," Zoro teased. "The more interesting ones, I can tell you stories about next time we hang out together. Sound good?"

"Now see, that sounds like a challenge, Marimo." Sanji growled teasingly, and he nipped the rough chin in front of him before sitting back to remove his own shirt. "You know how I am about my ingredients, I wonder if I tasted you all over, if you'd make the grade, hm?"

His own answering laughter was only half-growl. "Oh I bet not. Too salty from all that sweat. Probably too overpowering a flavor, too. Though I think I might, just maybe, know a spice that compliments it perfectly..."

"That so? I've a very picky palate, are you sure something that jaded will balance things out?" The blond actually did give a soft moan when he tipped the swordsman back so he could touch with both hands and chest. He was already mouthing the strong line from chin to neck, his hands exploring the green-haired man's sides.

Zoro chuckled, the flesh under his mouth moving in little jerky movements. "Yes, I do. After all, a well-aged seasoning compliments something fresher and more bitter quite well… or so I've been told," he purred, tilting his head back to bare his throat and his hands kneading at Sanji's back.

"You can... go further... if you want."

Sanji tasted.

Oh but he tasted!

The sweat from their spar, the scents and perfumes from the laundry soap and body wash the swordsman used, the hint of smoke that suggested he had more friends that shared the cook's vice than he knew about, and a sort of transferred edge, something that was cooking spices and long nights over a hot stove that truly didn't belong to the skin beneath his tongue. He hadn't realized, as he made his way to the three hanging pendants, that he'd been spending so much time with the other man that his own scent was rubbing off on him. It made the coil of want that much sharper, and a low simmer warmed his veins, hinting at something more.

Zoro's hands deftly undid Sanji's buttons, then eased off his pants to access the skin beneath, his calluses rubbing and his hands so very, very hot. His breathing hitched when a tongue found warmed metal and he groaned softly, one hand on Sanji's hip tightening as he tilted his head.

"I'm rather liking... being tasted. You must... figure I pass the bar... to be enjoying me so much," he purred.

"Hmm." Sanji tugged on one of the earrings with his teeth gently. "Haven't decided yet. I may have to taste more of you."

Rolling his hips, Sanji hummed again, not exactly quiet with his pleasure, but subdued. The hands on his skin felt wonderful, and he did what he could to nonverbally encourage it.

"Maybe I should get a taste, then." Zoro spoke softly, leaning forward and turning so Sanji was on the bed proper and moving around until he was straddling him comfortably. He took his hands and put them back on his chest. "Though don't stop touching."

Then he leaned down and kissed softly up and down his neck.

The blond's breath hitched and his spine arched into the swordsman's mouth, each touch of his tongue sent sparks behind the cook's eyelids, little bursts of pleasure that had him grinding his slick arousal against the front of Zoro's training pants. His hands gripped and stroked anything he felt, muscle, skin, scars, the works, and his toes curled, it had been FAR, FAR, too long.

"C-could say th-the same... just don't stop touching."

Zoro's mouth went down Sanji's body, over his collarbone, pausing at each nipple to nibble and suck. A reverent tongue traced scars under both pectorals, all the way from breastbone around, and then down, down, over his abdominals while his hands took off his underwear and his mouth followed the delicious 'v' of his legs straight to the prize in the center, which, once his tongue had been applied, told Sanji exactly how skilled wielding a sword in your mouth could make you.

The touching had to stop then, because all the cook could do was fight the urge to buck into that delicious cavern. His head flew back and his hands gripped the sheets to either side of his hips, and it was a veritable shower of pleasure in his mind, all of his awareness pooling as quickly as his blood in his pelvis.

Zoro kept sucking him, hands massaging his thighs and his hips as he took after him like he was a gourmet meal, his tongue twisting and flicking.

"Y-y-yer gonna e-ennn-d this early you k-keep that upp." Sanji panted against the feeling of his building climax.

"Is there a rule you can only come once? Tantric texts indicate the first is only the warm up, a release so you can focus on the build of the next," he purred around the flesh in his mouth: somehow, ENTIRELY coherently. Not just coherent, even, but said with perfect inflection and pronunciation, like he didn't even have a dick in his mouth!

Somehow the talking thing made all of the rest of it worse, because every word vibrated against his sensitive flesh and made him dig into the blankets harder. "Nnnngh! Nnot f-fair..."

"Now if I played FAIR this wouldn't be very fun at all, now would it?" Zoro sucked extra firmly to punctuate.

Sanji cried out again, the hand not supporting his torso, flying to Zoro's head in an effort to keep him where he was. He was so close. So damn close, and damn the goddamned shitty oh gods swordsman anyway for that mouth!!!

He did stay right where he was, flicking, sucking, then he took him all the way in and hummed, smiling as he did.

To say the orgasm exploded from the chef's body would be an understatement, as he spasmed and clenched his muscles, falling over the precipice again and again like a glitched video, each beat of his heart a wave of pleasure as he emptied himself into his best friend's mouth. Little whimpering moans echoed from his chest and he was crying, hot tears of overwhelmed released spilling from eyes squeezed tightly shut even though he could see nothing.

Zoro waited until the flood had stopped to draw back, licking his lips and Sanji's cock clean, then leaning up to gently kiss away the tears from his face. He said nothing, letting him cry, but also letting him know he was there for him.

Sanji clung to him, breathing heavily and needing that solid weight to ground him. He honestly hadn't realized how desperate for affection he was until just then, and it left him near-paralyzed, rubbing his face against the other's just to remind himself that yes, this was real, and actually happening. He wasn't dreaming and Zoro wasn't going to just disappear in a moment when his afterglow wore off.

~*~

Over the next several weeks, Sanji found himself in a new routine. No longer did he bundle up in layers to shuffle his way downtown to his brothers’ diner. In fact he took to not wearing his trench coat at all, favoring hoodies when the sea-wind was too strong for tee-shirts. He smiled more, he laughed more, and by the turn of Spring into Summer, he was spending every day with Zoro.

The splinter of seasoned hardwood echoed in Zoro's ears like the report of gunfire as he was sent sprawling to the floor, the splintered remains of his bokken digging into his hand before he remembered to let it go. Hissing, he tried to lever himself up, but his other hand, which was tingling from blocking the rest of the blow that had shattered his other weapon, refused to hold him.

"Shit! Shit, call match! I can barely keep up with two, with just one I'm fucking useless against those steel legs of yours, cook," he barked, rolling onto his knees instead. "Be careful. Splinters all over the mat around you, step lightly."

Landing from the flying spin kick was easier said than done when Sanji had already planned how he was going to push forward again, so pulling his foot back at the end of the roundhouse follow-through made his knee crack from the force in a way that sounded more painful than it actually was. However, the warning to step carefully had him shifting his weight slightly, to balance out holding his leg parallel to the floor.

"You alright?"

"Couple splinters, mostly fine," he replied ruefully as he rose to his feet and went to fetch his broom.

Using his good hand (well, better hand) to grip the handle carefully, he swept the splinters away from Sanji, off the mats, and over to a little pile next to the trash bin. He couldn't handle the dustpan right now, but at least Sanji wouldn't get anything in his feet.

"You're clear, shouldn't step on any splinters now."

The cook lowered his leg gently, no sign of fatigue from having been maintaining the same position for what was close to ten minutes thanks to the stubbornness of bamboo splinters in tatami fibers, and he crossed confidently to the bathroom for the first aid kit.

"Here, sit on the futon with me so I can get those splinters out before you try to clean up any more."

Zoro laughed and went to sit on the futon, knowing very well Sanji would meet him there, and sitting cross-legged to be more comfortable, his hand in his lap. "Now ain't this familiar? I seem to have a problem with wood."

"Maybe it's just you not being flexible enough to handle it." The blond teased, plopping down in front of him with the accuracy of habit. He sighed some while dabbing the wounds with the antiseptic. "I suppose I can't hold it off any longer then, huh?"

"You could, but we'd have to stop sparring," Zoro replied honestly. "And I think I'd prefer to... y'know, actually challenge you in a spar one of these days. I think I have enough saved; not like I spend my money on much else."

Sanji groaned again. He really didn't want to have to talk to them. It was bad enough dealing with people who recognized him when he went shopping, which he did often these days now that he was cooking for Zoro every day. Slowly but surely the green-haired man was giving him back something like normalcy, and he wasn't sure what had happened after their first spar, but even Luffy was avoiding bothering him now. Still, to call up Kaku? He... didn't know if he was up for that.

Zoro reached forward with the hand he wasn't working on and caressed his cheek. "I can order some from home. It'll take longer, I have to save up a lot more for the shipping, but you really don't have to if you don't want to." He smiled when he leaned in to peck Sanji's nose. "After all, you still suck when you're not using your feet and I can pin you at wrestling any day."

"Oi! That's because you're a behemoth, bakemono!" The cook groused, though not all that seriously, "If we pitted your upper body strength against my lower, I come out on top. And you know it."

And just because, he stuck his tongue out.

Zoro stuck out his own.

"Only because the way bodies are made means when we actually pit my upper against your lower body shit gets WEIRD and hard to move! If I had the same freedom of maneuverability pitting my torso against your legs and hips I would totally come out victorious! Unfortunately bodies ain't shaped that way," he grumbled, pouting.

"Well, it certainly doesn't make things even when you cheat! That mouth of yours should be illegal!" Color flushed his cheeks, but Sanji kept up the taunting anyway. Sparring always made them both more handsy, and worse when they didn't get to finish for whatever reason.

Zoro grinned lecherously.

"If my mouth should be illegal, then so should your fingertips. The things you can do with them is DEFINITELY fucking illegal in at least half the states, I'm positive," he shot back, one hand sliding over Sanji's knee and kneading.

"Jesus, lemme at least get the kit on the table before you start pawing at me. Ruffian." But the cook leaned in to growl playfully as he set the kit off to the side and unfolded his ungodly long legs to either side of the just barely shorter man's hips.

He chuckled again, but offered his hand. No use letting it get infected again. "Fine, better get 'em out quick then. You know I have no patience at all."

With probably more force than necessary, Sanji plucked the six splinters from the other's palm, and ended the procedure with a kiss to the center. He had no idea what they were, because they never talked about it, but he thought maybe it was better that way, because then he wasn't trying to live up to someone's expectations.

Zoro's hand curled the fingers tenderly around Sanji's ear and he leaned in, kissing his head and inhaling his scent. "Thanks," he murmured, suddenly going from adrenaline pumped to sweet.

"Well, you'd be even more useless if you didn't have both your hands, so there." The cook puffed, embarrassed by the gratitude as always, but he didn't let go of the swordsman's hand, instead nuzzling into it, and kissing the bare wrist with a tiny nip to the skin.

He chuckled. "Well, this was how we first got to know each other. I'm happy you helped me out that first day," he turned and kissed Sanji's cheek, just under his scars. "I'm happy I met you. And I'm very, VERY happy you didn't get hit by that truck."

"Pfft. Yeah, not getting splattered by a truck is definitely a plus, though it pains me to say that it matters more now than it did before you tackled me."

Sanji nipped at Zoro's chin, leaning back so that they were more reclined on the futon, the musclebound swordsman hovering above him. He never said it out loud, but being under the other, regardless of who was actually doing the penetration, made him feel safer, like the stocky Asian man was a brick wall between him and the rest of the world.

"Happy to be of service," he purred, nuzzling into Sanji's neck as he pressed between his legs, giving him that barrier. A heavy, musclebound barrier that could, and would, fight off anything he thought could hurt his friend, even as he braced himself on his elbows to hover over him.

Immediately Sanji started petting him, slipping his talented fingers up under the broader man's shirt to play with that scar. He couldn't help it, the texture was amazing. He couldn't even imagine what it would actually look like, but he knew it ran from just under Zoro's collar bone diagonally across his entire torso ending just shy of his opposite hip. He pulled back only once, so he could shuck off the open button down he'd been wearing since their spar, because the only thing better than his fingers, was having as much of his skin in contact with the other's skin as possible.

He didn't like to admit that it gave him comfort, that it stabilized him in an otherwise vastly overwhelming world, but he had the sinking suspicion that it was obvious, because he initiated the contact everywhere. From holding hands walking down the street, to leaning on Zoro's shoulder in the subway, to draping himself over the green-haired man in his sleep. Physical contact, the actual act of touching, it had opened something up inside of him. Zoro was his rock in the wild, untamed ocean of black what was his visual world.

Maybe it was the fact that Zoro never questioned him on it; maybe it was how he was never rebuffed, the affections returned; or maybe it was just the steady, solid presence of Zoro, a mountain in more than one sense of the word, always ready to stand by him. He was guide and guard dog all in one. He still snarled at strangers that stared too much (and would lay on a thick, heavy accent at appropriate times if he was really pissed) and was always nudging Sanji when he tried not to walk too slow for the leggy blond's breakneck pace. He didn't listen to the GPS but he did obey Sanji, never questioning his ability or his sense of direction.

Maybe that was it: he trusted Sanji.

Still, he purred as he pressed into the touch and kissed along Sanji's shoulder, humming happily.

Which was why it was all the more jarring when the sound of knuckles, aged with years of use, rapped on the door outside of Zoro's apartment. In response, Sanji actually clung to his best-lover-friend-person-whatever and tried not to panic at the intrusion into their lives. It was stupid to think that Zoro would never get visitors, and even moreso for him to think they would necessarily call first. After all, the man did have a job, and other people he talked to. Sanji wasn't the only person in the city that knew him, or spent time with him. But still, he couldn't stop the gut reaction of 'oh shit' whenever it happened.

The middle-aged swordsman's head poked through the open door. "Yohoooo, Zoro? Oh, you've company. I was just going to ask if you had time to spar today; without a partner, these old bones are getting rusty, ho ho ho!"

Zoro tried not to be too exasperated, his head falling forward onto Sanji's chest with a groan. "I have better social etiquette than this," he muttered under his breath before taking a deep one and getting off Sanji to face the doorway. "Not today, Brook. I just broke my second bokken and am down to one. I can't even do katas if I break that one, so no sword sparring for me for a while."

The change in the blond was immediate. When he'd moved in, he'd liked Brook, even if the older male was a bit of a pervert and had a rather archaic outlook on the respect a lady deserved, but now... especially after the other day... He shifted to the other end of the futon, tucking himself into the corner, with his legs drawn up so that his knees were under his chin and his arms wrapped around his ankles. He hoped silently that Zoro would be rid of the tall, black man as soon as possible.

"Ohhh..." The disappointment in his voice was genuine. "That's a terrible shame. I hope you can replace them soon, then. I really do miss sparring. You never fight anyone else anymore..."

"I've found someone stronger than me, why should I not strive to achieve higher skill," Zoro retorted, perhaps more sharply than the older man deserved.

Brook took the hint and bowed himself out. "Ah, yes, yes, of course. I'll just be off then. Good day to you both."

Sanji waited, still curled up in his ball, until long after the elevator dinged to signal that the lanky swordsman was actually gone. He didn't really have anything personal against Brook, he just... couldn't explain it. The change from extrovert to intense introvert was still something he hadn't yet come to terms with.

Zoro tucked Sanji into his side, saying nothing, only offering his presence.

"Does it ever stop?" The words fell from his lips before he could stop them, and when he closed his eyes, turning into the broad chest beside him, the former chef realized his cheeks were wet.

"For some people," he replied gently, hugging him tight. "For some, it becomes less over time. For others, it never stops, and gets only stronger. I wish I could promise that it goes away, but I can't."

"It didn't used to be like this. I used to be the center of attention. I had people lining up for hours just to get a glimpse of me. People would stop me in the street, demand my autograph at all hours of the day and night. And I loved it! And now...?" Sanji trailed off, resting his cheek against the soft cotton of Zoro's shirt—once again settled back down over his torso thanks to his having stood up to face Brook.

"The situation has changed. It's only natural that your reaction has changed as well. Besides, it's different when they're giving you attention out of admiration; now you feel all attention is the bad kind, from paparazzi, and people circulating rumors, and people saying nasty things about your accident and the fire. You don't want to think about it, and you sure as hell don't wanna listen to anyone talk about it," he said firmly, petting his side.

The cook was quiet for a long time, something weighing on his mind that he'd never said, ever, not even when things were new and fresh, or even before that, before the fire and the disability. He cringed that not once in his entire life had he ever actually put into words what had been branded on his heart from the day the shitty old man had adopted him.

And now, he still couldn't say it loudly, only a murmur into the solid presence of his lifesaver. "I miss my dad."

Zoro held him a little tighter. "I know. I'll bet he was one hell of a man."

"Your bokken wouldn't have lasted more than five seconds under his savate. Red-leg, they called him, cuz he broke so many noses it stained his gi. The cuffs were perpetually brown with old blood, even after he lost his right leg. It didn't slow him down much. He just couldn't compete anymore." Somehow he found the words poured easily now that the dam had been broken. "He held the world title in mixed martial arts for nearly ten years. And they didn't beat him, he retired with it."

"A worthy warrior," Zoro acknowledged. "I've heard of him, though only faintly. In the sword specialist circles, there isn't much focus on other disciplines, but even we heard of the man who retired with his title and never lost it."

"I was twelve at the time. Some drunk asshole clipped the car on a rainy night. We'd been fighting, so he didn't see the bastard until it was too late. Shitty geezer protected me, used his body to shield me from the glass and shit. It cost him his right leg from the knee down in the process. Never forgave him for that." Sanji sighed, running his fingers over Zoro's forearm through the sparse hair. "He trained me from that point on. Told me it was something to get my mind off of girls, and I think it gave him a reason to get used to the peg leg. They tried to give him one of those fancy bionic style ones, like what Franky uses, but he wouldn't take it. He insisted on a traditional peg leg made of Adam's wood. Fuck did that shit hurt when you got hit." He laughed ruefully. "That's why your bokken are nothing."

"Oh, Adam's wood... too valuable for bokken, though I'd use them if they made them," he sighed, smiling a bit. "That does explain your hard head, though, doesn't it, cook?"

"Oi! I earned that fair and square being a little shit to my old man." The cook teased, poking his... what were they exactly?

Zoro laughed and mussed Sanji's hair, messing up his bangs. "Oh I have no doubt!"

"You're okay with all of this, yeah?"

Being caught doing anything other than sulking left him shaken and easily depressed, he hated it, drowning in his insecurities. So he distracted himself by running his hand down Zoro's arm until he could lace their fingers together, and he shifted so that his back was more firmly pressed against the swordsman's chest.

Lazily he drew designs on the back of the hand he held with his other one, "The fact that we never go out, we're always here. I cook for you, we spar, we fuck, and we sleep. That's it. Is that enough for you?"

"Yeah. I don't need to go out, I don't like parties or clubs.  I like quiet evenings at home in good company.  If I really wanted to go out, oh, to a park or something, I could do that by myself."  Zoro rubbed his thumb over Sanji's hand.

"Good." He sighed, relaxing the rest of the way. He still had his knees drawn up, that was what he was balancing their hands on, but the tension from Brook's interruption was gone. "Tomorrow I'll take you to Kaku. If there's one person in this shitty city that knows swords and how to get 'em, it's him."

Zoro purred. "Thank you, koi."

It was reflexive; he didn't think about the word before it came out of his mouth, and once it was out he had no thought of taking it back.

He silently hoped Sanji didn't know what it meant and wouldn't ask.

"We should sleep here." If he knew, he didn't comment, too content to stay where they were for the moment.

"Alright," Zoro agreed, using his toes to grab the blanket up to pull over them. "I am a bit tired."

"Monkey." Sanji teased, turning some so he could bury his nose in Zoro's scent.

"I thought I was a beast," he teased back, threading his hands into his hair.

"A monkey is a beast, haven't you seen Luffy when he's hungry?"

"Ah, oh kami, nothing compares to that boy when there's food to be had."

Sanji laughed. It was bittersweet, because he'd fed them once, the infamous D brothers, and at the time he wasn't sure his kitchen would ever be the same.

Zoro tucked him under his chin, his strong arms a physical reminder of that protection from before, and they drifted that way, from waking to slumber, content in their connection.

The next morning Sanji dressed simply, a pair of his favorite jeans and one of Zoro’s shirts. It was faintly warm and smelled of the oils the other man used in his work. Breakfast was a bagel with sliced fish left over from the night before, and the pair shared a sweet, breath-consuming, kiss just inside the door. Sanji’s arms wrapped around Zoro’s neck, and Zoro pulled his waist up tight against him, as though they could become a single being.

Whispers started as they crossed the apartment building lobby hand in hand. There was a determination in the way the blind man led them through the complex. Something that had Robin and Usopp looking up from their garden, that stopped Ace in his tracks, that rippled through the crowd on the train as they made their way downtown. It was a shade of something strong. The flicker of an underground fire, burning through the cracks in the trees and consuming from the roots up.

It had Zoro following him, half in awe, half wishing they hadn’t had to go out at all. Only for Sanji did his desire burn like this.

The bell above the door of Kaku’s shop jingled pleasantly; the scent of swords and oil and well-loved steel reached their noses. It felt homey, not too cluttered, but aged enough to be a serious dealership. Sanji snickered at the way Zoro vibrated, and nudged his shoulder, non-verbal permission for the sword-obsessed man to wander off. Like a kid in a candy shop.

Sanji shook his head fondly, moving off to the knife collection along the outside wall. He hadn’t been here since before the accident, when he’d so boldly purchased a full set of Wüsthof blades just to show off how successful he had been. Rubbing it in his brothers’ noses. He didn’t know what had become of those knives actually. Neither Carne nor Patty had them. But the last time he’d seen them… well… had been the last time he’d seen anything.

“They’re still here for safe-keeping,” Kaku’s voice was gentle, like he was talking to a skittish animal.

The former chef allowed as how he was probably wise to think so. “Are they?”

“Oh yes. Ms. Robin and Ms. Nami had me keep them for you. Just in case. We all agreed that if you were ever interested in such things, you’d come to me. Were we wrong?”

Sanji almost winced at the apology in the man’s voice. “No. No, you weren’t wrong.”

“But?”

“But that’s not why I’m here.”

“Oh.” Kaku sounded disappointed. “I had hoped…”

“Yeah, everyone does.” He couldn’t help the hard edge that crept into his voice, and he shook himself slightly. “No, I need bokken. Three of them. The best you’ve got in stock and I’d like to put in an order for professional quality to be shipped in from Japan.”

Sanji could practically hear the way Kaku’s eyebrows shot up towards his ginger hair. “So what Master Brook said was true? You’ve taken to sparring again?”

“Yes…” Color flushed across his cheeks, and even though he was unable to see the shopkeeper’s expression, he still turned his face away in embarrassment. “My… partner and I broke his previous set.”

Kaku whistled in awe and a grin made his lips smack a little as they parted. “I never thought I’d see the day when you were back in top form, Master Sanji. Perhaps you’d be willing to spar with someone else every so often?”

The hope was plain in his voice, and Sanji shook his head with a shrug. “I’m only just getting the rust off. I’m sure you’re worlds beyond me by now.”

“Oh certainly not!” The shopkeeper insisted. “Not with you going up against—“

There was a crash behind them that made Sanji jump, in the same movement he spun, his weight on his left heel, ready to strike at the unseen threat. He only relaxed when Zoro’s cursing reached his ears, and it became obvious that the green-haired man had knocked over a display of wooden toy swords.

Sighing with an exasperated air, the blond man called, “Having trouble over there, Marimo? You’re the one with the working eye remember?”

“Yeah, yeah, laugh it up, Curly. Make the square-nosed bastard come help me get these damn things back where they belong. It’s his shop isn’t it? He should be useful in it.”

Sanji snickered, and Kaku moved around the counter to lend a hand. Once they’d been sorted back into the appropriate racks, by size and weight, both men joined Sanji next to the counter. The cook didn’t like standing there while someone else did what should have been easy for him, and he gripped the handle of his cane that much harder for it. But he was all-too-aware that all of those swords were cut to feel the exact same, meaning even his ‘black magic’ wasn’t much help sorting them.

Zoro picked up on this, slipping his hand over Sanji’s with a supportive squeeze to his wrist. “So what do I owe you for the bokken?”

“For you? Promise me you’ll mention where you bought them at your next fight and we’ll be square, Master Zoro.” Kaku sounded genuinely thrilled.

It was a tone of voice Sanji had never heard in the swordsman before. Even when Brook had accompanied him, the shopkeeper had never been head-over-heels for him. And Brook The Humming Swordsman had been a household name at the peak of his ability. So what…?

He frowned as something passed between the shopkeep and his other half. Something too silent for him to hear. Something that was obvious in its absence.

It sent a twisting sensation through his stomach.

Preoccupied, Sanji didn’t pay attention to the end of the transaction. In fact he didn’t speak at all until they were back out on the sidewalk heading back to Galley-La. His arm was bent with the familiar, comfortable, weight of Zoro’s fingers on his elbow, but his mind was a million miles away.

“Who are you?” He asked suddenly.

“What do you mean, cook?”

“You know exactly what I mean. I bared my soul to you, told you everything of what had happened to me, who I was, who I had been. I risked you being anything from a psychopathic fan to some tabloid reporter, but you aren’t just a security guard and a teacher.” The hurt was more obvious in his voice than he wanted it to be. “Who are you?”

“Sanji… you know who I am…”

“No.” He pulled away, his arm cold now. “Kaku doesn’t act like a fanboy. He’s a level-headed, polite, gentlemanly soul. He doesn’t lose his shit talking to celebrities. He’s always treated me like a person first and foremost. But you… you... he was… Who are you, Zoro!”

He became aware that he was walking backwards, stepping away, putting distance between them. The smack of his back against the streetlight accompanied his GPS in his pocket chiming that they were on the corner of East Blue and Red Line. How fitting.

“Sanji, it’s not what you think.”

He felt Zoro reach for him, and he ducked to the side. His heel caught the break in the curb and twisted, sending him off balance. The cane flailed in the air like a whip between them, and he sprawled on the pavement, grit and tiny stones digging into his palms.

The blaring of a horn sounded in his ears, but where was the sidewalk!?

He felt the wind of the cars in the other lane, and rolled to scramble towards where he thought safety should have been, but the next thing that happened was a rush of hot air, followed by the crunch of metal and glass. Car horns blared, people were shouting, and it was all even more disorienting than before. Beginning to shake and panic, he felt along the ground with his hands, desperately trying to get off the road.

Then someone warm and solid was wrapping him up in their arms. He was breathing hard, clinging to the man’s shirt, lost in a sea of chaos.

Zoro’s voice was in his ear, “I got you. I got you. You’re safe. It’s okay.”

Shivering and nodding, Sanji leaned on him. He was wet for some reason, his shoulder and arm were sticky and warm. Something about it pinged wrong in that sixth sense he always claimed he didn’t have.

“Zoro…” He croaked.

“I’m here.”

“You’re hurt.”

“I’ll be fine.”

They were walking away from the scene, hunched over so as to not draw attention to themselves, and somehow, heading towards their apartments.

“Zoro…”

“I’m here.”

“How did you stop the car?”

“Don’t ask me that.”

The elevator dinged. The sticky was drying, tacky and it smelled of iron.

“Please, Zoro?”

“You won’t like the answer, koi.”

Zoro grunted as he opened the door to his half of the penthouse, and Sanji tried to feel for evidence of what had happened. His hands were stopped each time. He wasn’t aware he was whining until Zoro’s mouth was on his own. He kissed him into bed, overwhelming him with the sheer force of his desire. The black behind his eyelids lit up with explosions, color and light and sound and it was beautiful!

They moved together, silk sheets around them, and the sounds of the accident faded into the background. It all blended together, the pleasure, the pain, the months and months of healing. In that single moment everything was perfect, they were one heart, one mind, one soul. And they soared together through time and space, transcending reality in their joining.

Sanji floated in the aether beyond himself, drifting in a cocoon of perfection that was soft and sweet and—!

“Wake up, Eggplant, or you’ll burn the whole damn place down!” Zeff’s voice snapped him out of himself.

He blinked, the warmth and brightness of the Baratie an assault on his senses. The place was packed. Confetti still drifted in the air from where Usopp’s shitty crackers had spewed it all over the dining room. If Franky hadn’t put that shield of glass around the grill like he’d wanted to, it could have been a fire hazard. One flake of paper in the oils Sanji was working with and it would be a disaster.

He gave a smug toss of his chin, his bangs slipping back from this face as he flipped the mixture in his pan. Already the whole thing was faintly blue with yellow and red at the edges.

Only one more minute and he’d add the alcohol to make the magic.

He met his father’s eye, pride and caution in the Old Geezer’s expression.

Then he spun the bottle in the middle of his palm, the arc of green spirits like a life-giving rain over the stove. Everyone held their breath.

The flash was immediate. As soon as the volatile liquid touched the heat, it ignited, flaring up to obscure the whole audience, and Sanji pushed the pan away from him, controlling the flame with a deft twist of his wrist. It was extinguished as fast as it appeared. Leaving behind the bright orange singe that was the final touch to the dish.

He grinned brightly at the snapping of cameras, not so much pouring the food onto the plate as delivering the dawn itself from the sky to the dish. “Ladies and gentlemen of all flavors, I give you… The Sunrise!”

The audience went WILD. Cheering and flashes went up all over the restaurant as the closed circuit television screens broadcast his success from one end of the dining room to the other. Reporters drawn by the event were commenting back to their viewers at home. It was a frenzy of congratulations.

He could barely take a breath without having to smile for some other person, but eventually the crowd thinned, each with their own tiny piece of the Sunrise. It let him fade into the back a little. Oh he still acknowledged anyone that crossed his path, but he could lean against the wall with his Nakama, enjoying a celebratory glass of wine.

That was probably why the flash of green across the way caught his eye, “Brook… who’s that?”

Brook looked over, following his gaze, and laughed. "Yohoho! That is Mr. Roronoa! I'm surprised to see him out and about this soon, though it's no surprise he would come here, hohoho! Your excellent food is known far and wide after all, Sanji!" 

He sipped at his own wine, watching the man at the table jabbing his fork in the air as he spoke to the grizzled-looking man across the table from him. His companion held the look of long-suffering that came to one after they'd been listening to the same argument fifteen times, and was chewing on an unlit cigar since smoking wasn't allowed in the restaurant.

"Still, I'd have thought he would still be recovering from that awful wound he got!"

"Wound? What wound?" The last several weeks had been nothing but practice for this night. Sanji felt disoriented and had to blink several times to clear his head, as the image of blood dripping down Roronoa's arm flickered over the man sitting there. "He's gonna need stitches for that."

"Oh, he did! Wait, if you don't know which wound, how did... well, he did get I think... twenty-seven stitches? No, I think it was thirty-three," Brook frowned briefly as he tried to remember, and in his silence the sound of Roronoa's voice steadily rising carried across the room to them.

"I won my title fair and square and if they won't stop saying I cheated I'll—!!"

The man he was with reached across the table and pushed his finger right into the center of his chest, hard, and despite how simple the poke was it made Roronoa go paler than his dark skin should have been capable of and double over gasping, a thick-muscled arm braced on the table.

"It was definitely thirty-three," Brook continued when it was clear the older man had the mosshead under firm control. "And the wound, why, it nearly killed him, Sanji! I'm surprised that even with how focused you've been it slipped by; it was on all the news channels for over a week! Mr. Roronoa is a swordsman, and challenged Dracule Mihawk for his title of the World's Greatest; and won! Yohohohohoho, I lost a fair penny on that bet, but Mr. Roronoa paid a fair higher price! You see, he took a grievous wound from Mihawk's sword, one that very nearly gutted him!"

He twirled his cane with a little quirk of his lips as he remembered that thrill of the ring and the kiss of steel on steel. "He refused to back down though, he fought on, and wouldn't let the medical personnel come near until the fight was over! I heard he lost over seven liters of blood, requiring no less than eight transfusions by the time the surgery was complete, and that if he hadn't dodged, instead of a diagonal slice across his torso, he'd have been filleted from throat to belly like a fish!"

Sanji looked pale. He swallowed hard, several times, absently shoving his wine glass towards someone in his peripheral. He didn't even notice when Nami protested, or when Robin stopped her from interfering. The ginger was mollified by the expression their favorite cook wore, and he made his way through the crowd, nodding and smiling without really seeing anyone he was talking to. A woman came up to him, and instead of fawning over her, he merely guided her gently to the side with faint squeeze of his hand on her shoulder.

Then he was at the table where the two men were seated. He was staring. He knew he was staring. He couldn't stop himself. He had to study the rise and fall of brow and cheek, the bend of his nose where it had been broken when he was younger, the callus at the corners of his mouth, the prominent squared edges of his jaw—that tasted like sweat and cinnamon, his mind supplied out of nowhere.

"You still have both eyes."

His head turned, and sure enough, though his left eye was a little hazy and unfocused (and there were four neat little stitches above his eye and two below it) the eye itself was intact and looking right at him. "...yeah. Is that rumor still going around that I lost this one?"

Across the table, the man with him sensed the strange air and he sat back, still chewing his cigar.

Zoro studied the blond-haired chef—he was a chef, right? He was wearing all white and that weird apron with the buttons- and somehow he got the oddest impression... of...

"Your eyes are blue. Not gray."

"TV always washes them out. Something about the saturation in the cameras." The whole world felt like it was on its side. "Do I... know you?"

His eyes flicked down and then back up. "I... I didn't see your eyes on TV." 

They were gray... they were scarred...

"I don't... I don't know. I feel like I… like I should..."

Zoro frowned, head tilting to the side. There was a word on the tip of his tongue, a phrase in his mouth. And he didn't know why.

"Ero-cook."

The word echoed in his ears several times before everything faded to black, and Sanji gasped, sitting bolt upright, clutching the blanket between his hands.

His hands that hurt, scraped and sore. Just like his behind... 

From the road. 

The car! 

The accident!! 

THIS WAS ALL WRONG!

"ZORO!" He called into the darkness, a plaintive desperation that he hadn't lost the one good thing after that night.

"Mmnnggggggh," grunted from next to him, and suddenly a heavy arm slung over his lap. "Right here, Sanji. Lay down. Don't have the—" the sound of a heavy yawn, "mmnhhf. C'mere."

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I shouldn't have... it wasn't... no wonder Kaku was fawning all over you... I'm sorry!" The cook curled around him, mindful of the gash on the back of his shoulder. "I remember. You don't have to tell me anything. I'm sorry."

There was the slightly gurgle-like sound of Zoro grumbling when he was too sleepy to growl properly. "It's okay, idiot-cook. Figured you'd either figure it out or cool down enough for me to tell your dumb ass." 

But his hand adjusted Sanji until his head was resting over his heartbeat, and only then did the mosshead relax again.

Sanji sighed, tracing the brand new line of stitches down Zoro’s bicep. “You stopped the truck with your shoulder, didn’t you?”

The silence was telling.

“And I passed out while you saw Chopper for it.”

Again the silence stretched.

“I know you aren’t sleeping, I have hear you breathe.”

“Not that I don’t appreciate your stalker-like tendencies, magic man, but I would be if someone wasn’t chattering at me.” Zoro grumbled, holding him tighter. There was an expectation between them, so, with much reluctance, the swordsman sighed, propping himself up on his good arm. “Yes, I did, but the driver swerved. He only clipped me. It’s probably why it even worked, because otherwise we both would have been splattered.”

“Hmm…”

“Law was there too.” The eyeroll was audible. “Turns out Ace saw the whole thing from the gatehouse. He called Luffy; Luffy got Law and Franky.” Zoro tried not to wince as he pulled Sanji’s hand to his lips so he could kiss his palm. “It really isn’t as bad as it sounded.”

“I know.”

“You’re thinking about that night again.”

“My dream. It was like a different universe. You still have your eyes, and I pulled off the Sunrise. Everyone cheered and we…” Sanji tucked in closer, “we weren’t anything. You had no interest in me and I was still the center of attention playboy that I had been.”

Zoro hummed in the back of his throat. “Would you want hat?”

“What!? No!”

“Don’t just jump on the impulse. Think about it. You’d have your career, your sight, your restaurant… your dad.”

Sanji pushed away to glare at him, both hands on his chest. “I don’t! I would have you! And besides, what’s the point of wishing?! That’s like saying what if we’d met sooner. You were there that night but you were focused on Mihawk. You have no idea who I was or where you were before it all went to shit. I don’t think you even realized what was happening before everything caught fire.”

“I didn’t.” He sounded somewhere between amused and thoughtful. “I was gearing up for that fight and Smoker was trying to get me out of the gym for once instead of ordering take out. He knew but his focus was on getting me out rather on where we were going. It was just a happy accident that we happened to be there to help get people out.” He voice dropped in apology, “I… didn’t know about your dad.”

The ex-chef laughed; a short, almost scoff through his nose. “He wouldn’t have let you. He would’ve knocked you out so he could get you and everyone else out so that we all survived. That’s what he did actually. I remember screaming for him when they were loading me up in the ambulance. He shoved me down, told me to behave and listen to the doctors. I think he knew he wasn’t gonna make it out again.” He paused with a heavy breath, “I think I did too.”

“Yeah, maybe.”

He shifted so that his back was against Zoro’s chest so they both could lay down again, and sighed. “Kinda glad he never knew about the blindness thing though.”

There was silence for a while. Both of them simply existing in the pre-dawn stillness while the birds outside began to give their morning serenades.

Sanji shivered, "I need to apologize to Franky."

He was wide awake after his nightmare, and talking about it had only contributed to his need to be grounded in reality. Even though he knew his... whatever-they-were was trying to go back to sleep—giving him responses attempting to end the conversation—he needed to talk. He needed to work through the adrenaline. So, he changed subjects, forcing himself away from thoughts of the night his father died and the things he'd done wrong. Like spending too much time fawning over women that didn't matter, and men that wanted nothing more than the bragging rights of having fucked Sanji Noire.

No, he had a better subject, "Zoro... what are we? Are... are we a permanent thing? Like... would you... maybe want..."

"Yeah. Do you really think I'd keep finding reasons for you to come over if I didn't like your company and want to spend more time in—" he yawned again, "It? C'mon Sanji give me a little credit at least. I don't know what we are... but... maybe we could be—I dunno, something?"

His hand tickled soft fingers up his spine.

The confirmation went a long way to settling his nerves, enough that the blond could push forward with his thought, "Maybe I could talk to Franky about taking down the wall. No sense in having two apartments when we're always together right? And... it's time I stopped hiding in a hole in the wall..."

"It'd sure make it easier to let you have the cooking space," Zoro agreed easily. "I'm getting tired of burning shit. Even if I was doing it to get your attention, the smell wouldn't come out of the kitchen window drapes."

"I knew it! Bastard mossball. Torturing food." But the teasing tone meant he was firmly settled back down. "It's a crime against the senses to let you cook."

"Don't I know it. But if I didn't make the attempt you would never have come over to rescue me. And the food. But mostly me." He was grinning, Sanji could hear it in his voice, and his hand stroked through the blond's hair.

"Hardly pinned you as a damsel in distress, love." The affection, wrapped in sarcasm, rolled off of Sanji's tongue with the feeling of an old pair of jeans; it just fit right in his mouth.

"Only when it comes to food, Mr. White Knight," he returned, snuggling him closer and humming softly in his ear. "If it helps," he murmured, "you manage a VERY good rescue."

"Mmm... I always save the food. It's my calling."

As sleepy as he was, Sanji missed the importance of what he'd just said.

After months and months of tiptoeing around his passion for cooking, and Zoro having to pull it out of him one recipe at a time, finally he admitted it. It was the dark of night, after the most serious fight they'd ever had, but for the first time since Nami and Luffy had approached him, Zoro felt like he could feel confident that Sanji was no long on the brink of self-destruction.

And that was worth celebrating. Just... maybe not with confetti.

~fin~


End file.
